Definitely Impossible
by Someone aka Me
Summary: When Harry and Draco are paired together in Auror training, Draco is convinced it's going to be impossible to survive this without utter madness breaking loose. But then, Potter seems to have a knack for doing impossible things. Post-War, eventual Drarry.
1. Chapter 1

For the Speed of Lightning Competition. Requirement – 6,000+ words.

No promises on fast updates past the first two chapters, sorry.

I don't own HP.

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His face is an expressionless mask even as the chains lash themselves around his wrists. He holds his emotions on a tight rein – but he almost doesn't have to. This is a lot easier than what he's been through in the past. He's faced so much worse than this in the last two years. What harm can the Wizengamot do to him? Sure, they can lock him up. They can take away his freedom, give him to the Dementors – but he knows that he can survive any of that. And there are already movements in place to banish the Dementors from Azkaban, led by Potter, no less. With his backing, they can't fail. Not with Potter as the "Slayer of Voldemort," the "Savior of the Wizarding World," and all of the other ridiculous things they've christened him in the papers.

So when the Wizengamot members ask him to tell his story, Draco tells it straight. He twists every single bit of it to his advantage, of course – he's a Slytherin, and he's resigned, not stupid – but the facts are there, if people know how to look. He doesn't leave out any of it: letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts, disarming Headmaster Dumbledore, the hellish summer at the Manor, all the people he hurt, and his horror at all of it. He explains it all, his voice not monotone but expressionless.

And the Wizengamot members are looking at him, and Draco can tell by the look in their eyes that they've heard it a hundred times already, and he's no different from the rest of them. He's not done anything spectacularly bad, but he's done nothing spectacularly good, either, and he is Marked – though not anymore, because every Dark Mark vanished with the Dark Lord – and they will find him guilty. It's not surprising, but it's not an easy potion to swallow, either.

The members murmur amongst themselves before Amelia Bones speaks. "Will the accused provide a witness in his defense?"

Draco's already shaking his head when a voice comes from behind him.

"He will." Draco would swear up and down that he recognizes the voice, but it just isn't possible. Potter cannot possibly be standing behind him, speaking in his defense. It's not possible.

"Harry James Potter, witness for the defense." Well, apparently the impossible is happening. Though his face remains placid, Draco's thoughts are racing as Potter steps out from behind Draco's chair. He's wearing emerald dress robes and appears to have actually attempted to comb his hair, for once. He's gotten new glasses, some distractible part of Draco's mind notices, and his eyes don't look so ridiculously magnified in them.

Potter nods at him, and Draco's mind slips back into the moment at hand. Whispers fly across the room.

"Potter?"

"Potter!"

"For the defense!"

Draco ignores the whispers, and so does Potter – though Potter's probably quite used to them by now. He nods back, hesitantly, and Potter smiles slightly.

Amelia Bones clears her throat quite loudly. The whispers dull and quiet.

"Mr. Harry James Potter, witness for the defense. Proceed with testimony."

Potter blinks, as though this isn't how he expected things to go. Draco wonders if he expected a normal trial, with advocates and everything. That's not how the Death Eater trials have been going – not from what Draco has heard, and not today either. Everyone gets a fair chance to tell his or her side of the story, but that's usually it, unless the person can find a witness for defense, and, given it would have to be someone credible, that's atypical at best.

Potter is basically the definition of credible. Draco wonders what twisted sense of nobility has brought him here today, but he finds himself really unable to care, in this moment. Whatever Potter's motives are, he's here, and that's enough to save Draco from Azkaban.

Potter takes a moment to collect his thoughts before launching into things in the most Gryffindorish way possible.

"Draco Malfoy made it possible for Voldemort to be defeated. And he saved my life."

Mutters fill the room again before Madam Bones silences them.

And Harry proceeds to explain a lot of things that Draco already knew but didn't think were important, and he ties them all together with the image of one thing – the Elder Wand. And Draco keeps his expression carefully emotionless, but it's harder now, because his mouth really wants to fall open in shock. He was, for a few brief months, the Master of the Elder Wand. And that moment at the Manor, the moment where he couldn't knowingly sentence Potter to death when Potter was his best hope of ending the hell that his life was, if that moment hadn't happened, Potter wouldn't have won.

He listens to Potter explain to these people that in the key moment – the moment that could have restored his family to its former glory – Draco hesitated. And that was enough for Potter and his friends to escape. He listens to Potter paint the picture of Draco as a misguided man with a good heart underneath it all – because in the moments that matter, Draco can never go through with anything terrible.

And Draco wonders if Potter maybe isn't so Gryffindor after all, because the words spilling from his mouth like quicksilver paint an image of Draco Malfoy that Draco himself cannot even fathom, and he wonders if anyone is actually believing any of it. And then he looks around and he sees them staring at Potter with open-mouthed wonder, and Draco knows that they are lapping up every single word. They believe in this Draco that Harry is creating without any knowledge of what was really going on in Draco's head, from words and a few instances of truth.

And Draco wonders, for just a moment, if Potter himself believes the story he's spinning, but Draco rather doesn't think he does, because the look on Potter's face is that of a story-teller, weaving words together from past experiences, yes, but combining them into something new. No one else seems to notice this, thank Merlin.

And, once more, Draco wonders about Potter's motives. He watches the green eyes fly and dance around the room as Potter gesticulates wildly, and Draco wonders what gears are turning behind them. What is Potter trying to accomplish here?

Then Potter's hands go still, and Draco stops wondering about motive and starts inspecting the expressions of those who will determine his fate, because all of the sudden, that matters more than it did twenty minutes ago.

Surprise appears to be the dominating expression, though there is quite a bit of awe as well. And shock. And Draco smirks internally as he notices what emotions are conspicuously absent – skepticism. Cynicism. Disbelief. Condemnation.

The only one Draco can't read is Amelia Bones – the most important one. But Wizengamot votes are majority, not status, and it requires two-thirds approval to vote for a conviction.

"The Defendant and the Witness will now exit the courtroom as the Wizengamot discusses," Madam Bones says, and Draco follows Potter out, but it's not until the great wooden doors close shut behind him that he allows himself a small smile of satisfaction. He clears his expression the moment Potter turns to face him, though, and puts up an impassive front.

"Malfoy," Potter greets, but there isn't any malice in it.

"Potter," Draco says in the same tone. He knows what he's supposed to say. _Thank you. I appreciate it._ What he really winds up saying is, "Why?"

Potter shrugs his shoulders, and Draco finally sees the old Potter in him – the teenager. And that's when he realizes what it is that feels different about this Potter compared to the Potter he knew. This Potter feels like an adult – dress robes, fitting glasses, tamed hair, but it's more than that. It's in his demeanor; Potter holds himself like he knows what he's doing, now. He practically exudes confidence, but unlike Draco himself, it doesn't feel arrogant. It feels like Potter has finally realized where he belongs, what he is capable of.

And some part of Draco is terrified by the fact that this seventeen-year-old – who won a war about a month ago, yes, but is still only seventeen – feels like an adult. But a bigger part of Draco understands, because the war aged all of them, and Draco himself feels ancient, and he's only a month or so older than Potter, even though Draco is eighteen now, just barely. Cheerfully enough, he spent his eighteenth birthday in a holding cell, awaiting trial. It's never seemed to Draco like Potter's older, though – Potter has always had this weird sort of innocence that makes him seem younger, in Draco's mind.

Not anymore. This isn't the naïve eleven-year-old Draco met in Madam Malkin's all those years ago. This is a man who's been through a war, who's looked Death in the eyes and come out the other side more than once, who's killed, when he had to.

Yet, somehow, the emerald eyes still pave a path straight to Potter's soul, and Draco, who has always been talented at reading people, can see that he remains remarkably untainted by it all. He squashes the brief spark of jealous at this thought – Draco has never in his entire life though of himself as untainted.

Potter's voice finally breaks through Draco's thoughts and subtle inspection. "It was the truth."

Draco shakes his head, but he allows his lips to curl at the corners, know that Potter likely won't catch the note of humor buried under false scorn in his tone, and not really wanting to offend the man who may have just saved him from a life in prison.

"It was a few facts so coated in rose-colored fluff that they were barely discernible. And you well know that."

Potter shrugs almost sheepishly. "I do know that." He looks up, meeting Draco's eyes with emerald ones. "But you don't deserve to go to Azkaban."

Draco wants to blink in surprise, but Potter is meeting his gaze without blinking, so he doesn't. He meets Potter's gaze, and he tries to figure out what Potter meant by that.

Potter looks away first, as doesn't surprise Draco at all. "You did save my life, though," he mutters. "We both know you knew it was me."

Draco curses the uncontrollable process that tinges the skin of his cheeks lightly pink, and thanks Merlin that Potter is looking at the ground.

He turns his back to Potter with a flourish, masking the motion in arrogance rather than exposing it as an embarrassed gesture. "Well, excuse me for looking out for my best interests," Draco says haughtily. Trusting the color to have faded, he whirls back around. "I'm not an idiot, Potter. And I don't take well to having my home invaded." Draco arches an eyebrow elegantly. "You were the easiest way to get him out."

Green eyes flash. "You're saying you _used_ me?"

Draco looks down at Harry, tipping his chin up and shifting his gaze. "Of course not. I'm saying I bet on you." At Harry's appalled expression, Draco rephrases. "Not literally, Potter! I set things up for myself as though you were going to win."

The fire in Potter's eyes mellows a little.

"You assumed I was going to win?"

"Not entirely, of course. I had a backup plan. But yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're bloody stubborn, that's why!" Draco can't help the raised tone, but he modulates it within a sentence. "You may be a reckless fool of a Gryffindor, but you're too bloody stubborn to die."

The corners of Potter's lips curve into what Draco might dare call a smirk. "Malfoy, I think that might be the kindest thing you've ever said to me."

Draco scowls. "That was an insult, Potter."

The smirk only widens. "Perhaps," he says vaguely. "On the surface."

Potter is still smirking when the wooden doors open behind them. Draco spins on his heel and stalks away from the annoying menace that is the Savior of their world. He stops beside the chair, arcing his arms across his chest in a gesture of defiance, a refusal to sit. Madam Bones nods primly at him, and Draco senses Potter standing at his shoulder, hands twitching – seeking pockets, Draco discerns intuitively. Potter isn't used to the dress robes. This is oddly reassuring to Draco. Clearly the old Potter isn't completely gone.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," Madam Bones announces. "Accused of sympathies to the societal menace known as Lord Voldemort. Confessed a Marked supporter. All in favor of convicting the accused, please raise your hand now."

At first, there's nothing. Then one hand goes up, then another. A sporadic smattering of hands goes up, but not nearly two-thirds, Draco knows. He allows himself a small smile.

"All in favor of clearing the accused of all charges?"

Nearly every hand goes up, including, to Draco's surprise, that of Amelia Bones. Her face is impassive, but Draco can tell what she's saying anyway. _I don't want to see you in that chair again, Mr. Malfoy. Don't prove me wrong._

Draco nods at her, once, firmly.

"The accused is cleared of all charges." For the first time, Amelia Bones smiles ever-so-slightly. "You may go, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco bows. "Thank you, Madam."

She nods at him, and Draco walks out of the courtroom. He wants to run, to sprint, to jump, to _skip_, but that would be undignified and unbefitting of a Malfoy. And embarrassing. Instead, he walks at a steady pace, but he allows himself another small smile of satisfaction.

He only stops his pace when he hears the footsteps tracking his, echoing on the stone floor. He turns around. It's Potter. Of course it's Potter. Who else would it be? Draco sighs. Again, he knows what he's supposed to say. _Thank you. I appreciate it. How can I repay you?_

He doesn't say any of it. He doesn't say anything at all. He waits, and he lets Potter speak.

Potter doesn't seem to know what to say, but he seems a bit unnerved by the fact that Draco hasn't spoken. A very large part of Draco enjoys watching him squirm.

Eventually, Potter speaks, if only to break the silence that has engulfed them. "Where are you going to go, Malfoy?"

Draco raises an eyebrow. "_Go?_" he asks. "I'm going home." The words are matter-of-fact, as though Potter really should have known the answer to that. As he should have – where else would Draco be going?

But Potter seems surprised by his answer. "But…" he begins to protest, frowning. Potter stops to formulate a sentence, and then he finishes. "Memories?"

And Draco freezes, because Potter has a point. The Manor is full of memories, many unpleasant. But then he shakes himself. The Manor is his _home_, memories or not. And it's certainly large enough that there's room for Draco and his ghosts all at once – it's not like he _needs_ to use that parlour, anyway. Or the dining room. Or the cellar.

Draco tips his chin up again, and says haughtily, "I don't need to run from memories, Potter. I'm no coward."

Potter's next sentence is almost a whisper, and Draco's not entirely sure he's heard it properly, but Draco would almost swear that Potter mutters, "Then you're stronger than I am."

But then Potter meets Draco's eyes as though daring him to mention it, and so Draco doesn't. "I'll see you around, Potter."

The corner of Potter's mouth twists. "Might as well be Harry. You saved my life, the least you could do is use my first name."

Draco looks at him appraisingly, and eventually decides that the new Potter might as well have a new name. "Harry, then," he agrees. He kind of likes the way the name rolls off his tongue.

Po– Harry smiles. "I'll see you around, Draco."

And Draco turns around to walk away, but he only gets a few steps before his eyebrows furrow and he turns again. Pot– Harry's still standing in the same place, watching Draco walk away. "Potter, where are you staying?" Draco asks.

Potter shrugs. "I've inherited a house from my godfather, but it's far too big for just me."

Draco frowns as dots connect like constellations in his head. Soon enough, he shrugs. "The larger it is, the easier it is to avoid the memories. But then, that's also easier if you aren't the only one, isn't it?"

And that's as far as Draco is going with this conversation. If he's drawn the right constellation, Potter is going to have to finish it.

Potter meets his eyes, examining Draco's. He's looking for something. Draco's not going to let him find it so easily. His expression is, as always, stoic. Potter's eyes flick across Draco's face, looking for some confirmation, anything. Draco's face is carved from stone – something he perfected too many years ago.

Potter breathes in deeply, and then finally says, "It's rather easier for two people to inhabit one house, rather than each trying to keep his own."

And intuition tells Draco that Potter doesn't want to be left alone, and he doesn't blame the man. But Draco doesn't like to make things easy. Not things like this.

"Indeed," he drawls. "Good afternoon, Potter." And then he walks away. He can feel Potter's eyes staring into his back, and he can feel Potter wondering if he misinterpreted the entire conversation, and he can tell that Potter is cursing him in his head, but Draco doesn't mind any of that. He feels Potter's eyes on him all the way until he turns a corner and rides the elevator up to the Atruim – the only place in the ministry that people can Apparate – where Draco Disapparates. He's going home.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco isn't too surprised when his mother comes home. Potter speaks for her, too – because she saved his life. Apparently it's becoming a habit in their family. His father doesn't return, though, and that doesn't surprise Draco, either. Lucius Malfoy committed too many crimes to be so easily forgiven, and Potter doesn't speak for him. Draco can't hold that against him, either.

But it's in the following month that Draco learns the most about his mother, despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that he rarely sees her in that time. She stays in her room a lot, and she's listless, fluttery. She twitters about and never actually _does_ anything, and Draco begins to understand about his mother, and about her relationship with Father, and about her priorities.

Draco had always felt like there was an invisible wall between his parents, because, while she never directly countered it, Mother never seemed to put much stock in the Dark Lord's beliefs. But what Draco understands now is that she did believe in it, but it was never first for her. Family always, always, _always_ came first for Mother. Pureblood ideology came second, but that wasn't enough for Lucius, who put the ideology first and the family second.

And Draco realizes all of this because of how his mother reacts to losing his father. She acts like someone who has lost everything – because family _was_ her everything. Draco tries to remind her that her family was – is – more than just Lucius, but his efforts are ineffective at best. She needs time, he thinks, but he continues to invite her along every time he leaves the house, just in case. She smiles at him with her mouth and not her eyes, every time, and says, "Not today, I don't think, Draco."

So he nods. But Draco feels, sometimes, like he's living in the Manor by himself. And, of course, his memories. His mother is _there_, but she's not much of a presence. Draco had thought he was used to being alone in the vast, sprawling maze of the Manor, but not like this. It's different, because he used to know that he could always find his parents if he needed something. Not that he ever did, of course, but it was more the principle of the matter. It was about knowing he _could._ And he doesn't know that, anymore. It's a very lonely feeling.

And after over a month with his absent mother in the Manor doing nothing worthwhile, Draco sees the ad in the paper that Auror training is starting the first of August. He knows the minute he sees the ad that it isn't going to be easy, and a lot of people won't really accept him as an Auror, but Draco is sick of feeling worthless. He wants to _do_ something. Draco isn't good at being alone – he needs crowds, by nature. He's rarely perfectly at ease unless he's in the middle of a crowd, and all of this solitary time is driving him insane (though some would say that's just the inbreeding, Draco thinks wryly).

~DMHP~

Draco stands in the line of recruits, hands clasped behind his back, chin up, as the instructor bellows at them.

"…And I don't care who you are! I don't care where you come from! All I care about is what. Can. You. Do. For. This. Squad!"

Draco though people only bellowed things like that in novels, but apparently not. He doesn't envy the genius who snickers, though. "Think something's funny?" the instructor screams. "Is this a _joke_, to you, Trainee?"

"No, sir," the trainee responds.

The instructor glares along the line. "Anyone else want to treat Auror work like a joke?"

No one moves a muscle.

"I SAID, does anyone else want to treat Auror work like a joke?" he bellows louder.

"No, sir!" the trainees chorus, Draco included. He's no fool – singling himself out at this point, for any reason, is basically career suicide.

"Now," the man says, pacing back and forth in front of them, no longer screaming but his voice still unnaturally loud. "You trainees will all be paired up – first with another trainee. That is your training partner. Unless I decided otherwise, your training partner will become your partner in the field after you complete your two years training. Each pair of trainees with subsequently be paired with one full-status Auror. Because of the current shortage of full-status Aurors, some Aurors will have to manage two pairs of trainees. Others will not. All of this pairing is random! There is no special treatment in this department, no matter who you are. More training, more skill – that's what will get you places under my roof. Not a famous name, or a famous family." He stops pacing and clicks his heels together as he stops in front of the middle of the line.

"That being said," he continues. "You are coming in under special circumstances. As you all probably know, the Auror force lost nearly half its members last year, for one reason or another. Because of that, we offered to certain people the chance to start Auror training early – to specialize in something that the Auror force lost. Some people declined this privilege to start training with the _normal _trainees." He eyes Harry, almost upset. "Others declined the Auror program entirely. The others stand before you. These three are your fellow trainees in everything except their personal specialties. They will be partnered randomly among the rest of you, and they will train with the rest of you – and alone, on occasion." He glances up and down the line of trainees, looking for any sign of protest. He finds none. "Ronald Weasley––" Weasley nods somewhat arrogantly "––our strategy specialist. Neville Longbottom––" Longbottom nods, but only barely "–– our disguise specialist. And Dean Thomas––" Thomas nods politely "––our specialist on evasive tactics."

Draco snickers – internally, of course – at that. Thomas as an evasive strategist. It's so terribly logical that it's funny; he was one of the few that managed to evade the Death Eaters for nearly a year.

"PARTNERS!" the instructor bellows suddenly. A few of the trainees jump. Draco doesn't. Potter doesn't either. Draco gets a sort of cruel satisfaction over the fact that Weasley does. "Listen closely, and put your hand in the air when your name is called in case your partner doesn't already know who you are."

Draco's been surveying the line of trainees since his arrival, and, if he's perfectly honest with himself, he doesn't know who he'd like as a partner. Not Weasley. For the love of Merlin, not Weasley. He's pretty sure he could at least tolerate everyone else – maybe not Longbottom, but he's rumored to be much less incompetent than he used to be, so maybe Draco could refrain from murdering him. Maybe.

"Ronald Weasley! Alice Jones!" A mildly pretty blond smiles at Weasley, who kind of sort of smiles back before glancing disappointedly at Potter. Her smile dims a bit.

"Neville Longbottom! Robert Zumberg!" A long, lean boy lifts his hand and grins at Longbottom, who grins back.

"Dean Thomas! Seamus Finnigan!" Finnigan beams like a madman, and Thomas allows himself a joyful smile.

Draco listens closely to the names, inspecting the trainees for potentially allies and potential rivals. He isn't the only one who went through the Death Eater Trials – Theodore Nott is called – but Draco is the only one Marked who's here. For once, Draco isn't pleased to be unique.

"Draco Malfoy!" Draco elegantly raises a pale hand, daring anyone to protest with his eyes. "Harry Potter!"

It takes a moment to register in Draco's brain – he was too busy intimidating anyone who dared to question his right to be here. But then his auditory processing catches up and he whirls around, startled, to face Potter.

Potter is smirking again. Potters shouldn't be allowed to smirk, Draco thinks absently. It isn't fair. Gryffindors can't smirk. Except this one, apparently, because Potter is most certainly smirking at him.

Draco nods at Potter, and Potter nods back.

The instructor continues to call names, but Draco has stopped caring about potential allies and potential rivals for the moment. Potter is his partner. Probably for the rest of his career, he will have to work – often one on one – with Potter. In the field, even.

They won't survive this.

It isn't possible. It isn't possible that the two of them can both survive that much time together without killing each other. It just isn't possible.

But then, Potter testifying at his trial was impossible once, too, wasn't it? And coming back from the dead is supposed to be impossible, but Potter did that, too. He does seem to have a knack for doing impossible things.

And, as the idea begins to sink in, Draco begins to consider the fact that Potter might be a good partner. Certainly, he's adept. He's obviously not an idiot – either that or he has an incredible amount of sheer dumb luck. He'd not be alive at the moment if it were otherwise. And Draco trusts in Potter's skills, clearly – else he wouldn't have spent his time planning for Potter to win. Draco doesn't plan for events that he considers impossibilities.

But it's _Potter_. Draco and Potter don't get along. They don't trust each other on a basic level. There's a heaping build up of animosity between them. And beyond that, Potter's a _Gryffindor_. Draco's not sure he can take being partnered with a lion – the recklessness may very well drive him insane.

But then, Draco thinks, maybe he can be good for Potter. Maybe he can teach the Gryffindor to think like a Slytherin – to plan and consider all aspects, rather than to rush into things blindly. Maybe they'll temper each other.

Maybe. Or maybe they're both screwed, and they'll wind up either killing each other or losing their jobs. Also a highly probable outcome, and one that Draco would definitely consider more likely, were it not for that smirk.

Draco still maintains that Gryffindors don't smirk. They just don't. It's not a Gryffindor trait. Slytherins smirk. Ravenclaws have been known to smirk, on occasion. Hufflepuffs never smirk, and Gryffindors do _not_ smirk. So maybe Potter isn't all Gryffindor. Maybe some part of Potter is a Slytherin, if Draco can only find that part and bring it out.

Or maybe he's reading way too deep into a single facial expression. That's also possible.

"Right then!" the instructor bellows, finished pairing up partners. "Today, you are not going to feel like Aurors. Today, you are going to feel like schoolchildren. Because today, you are going to get to know your partner. You and your partner need to be a seamless machine – you need to know each other's actions before they begin. Now, I know that isn't going to happen in a day. But make it go as fast as possible, because partnership is key!"

Finnigan – of course it's Finnigan, because he never did know when the appropriate time was to shut his mouth – questions, "If partnership is key, why are they randomly assigned?"

"Don't question me, trainee!"

But Draco sees the tiny smile playing on the edges of the instructor's lips as he yells it – as though he wanted someone to ask that particular question. He still doesn't answer it, though, but some part of Draco intuitively understands this to mean that it isn't nearly as random as the instructor would like them to believe. Which seems odd to Draco, because it means he was purposely paired with Potter. _Strange._

That's not the only thing Draco learns from the interaction, though. Finnigan will ask the questions, even when he knows he won't get answer – because he'd have to be stupid not to have known. Draco knows now who to talk to – subtilely, of course – if he ever needs a particular question asked. It's one of those pieces of information that Draco picks up from observing other people that could be useful some day. He likes to know who he needs to talk to, depending on what he needs. He likes to know how different people react to things, so he knows how to phrase his request – though never as an outright request, of course. He's not a _Gryffindor_. And besides the obvious, Draco has learned that when one requests things from people, people expect something in return. If he doesn't phrase it as a request, though, often they don't know they're behaving in the way that Draco needs them to – even better if he can make them think it's their own idea – so they don't ever expect anything in return.

And it's subtleties like these that make Draco think the person who paired him with Potter is insane. Potter won't understand subtlety or nuance, or the discreet aspects of personality that are the best for manipulation. He's probably too Gryffindor for _any_ manipulation at all. Draco sighs. Getting to know Potter. It's going to be a long day.

~DMHP~

In hindsight, the trust exercises were the worst. _Muggle_ trust exercises, at that. And Draco doesn't trust Potter. Not at all. Not one bit. So he got screamed and yelled at for not letting himself fall properly in a _Muggle trust exercise._ Saint Potter, of course, did so easily. Draco scowled as he caught the dark-haired man – though he was sorely tempted to just drop him and claim it was an accident, somehow he didn't think that would go over very well.

No matter how many times Draco tried, though – and he was forced to try far too many times, in his opinion (though, if he's being honest, one was far too many for his tastes) – he couldn't trust Potter enough to fall. He just couldn't. It wasn't in his nature to trust others, and most especially not people he'd been avid rivals with for as long as they'd known each other.

The life story part was actually not _too_ awful when Potter was telling it. Draco learned a surprising amount about Potter that he hadn't already known. He had Muggle relatives that were horrible to him growing up, for example, which surprised Draco quite a bit. And then there was the fact that Draco could draw surprising similarities between them. Potter had never wanted to be anybody's hero, he claimed – it just kind of happened to him. Potter had never really had any choice in the matter. Other people had decided how his life was going to go, who he was going to be. That was why he turned down the Auror special program, Potter explained. He just wanted to be normal.

And when Draco had asked Potter about using his fame to free Draco and his mother, Potter had laughed.

"I don't get to be normal, Draco," he'd said. "I don't have that opportunity at all, anymore. Who knows, maybe I never did. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I have this fame, whether I want it or not. And I may not want it, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to use it."

It was actually a surprisingly Slytherin mentality. Draco found himself very amused by that fact.

But then came the part where Draco had to tell his story. And sure, he'd already told the past couple years in front of a court, but this was different, because it was Potter. And Potter was _in_ a lot of Draco's life story, which just felt awkward because he didn't know whether to refer to Potter in second person or third, so it came out all jumbled. And he didn't really want to tell Potter about his childhood – about Father, and his strictness. About Draco's all-consuming aversion to ever doing anything wrong.

He talked a lot about Mother, instead. About how he always knew she loved him, always. About how she told him, once, that all she ever wanted was for him to be happy. About how he doesn't know what to do with her, because all he wants is to help her but he doesn't know how.

And, reluctantly, he explains that, like Potter, he never really had any choice in where his life was going to go. It was all laid out, practically before he was even born.

But, despite the fact that he shares all of this, truly Draco shares nothing. He tells events, occurrences, and occasional intuitions. Memories. But he doesn't share feelings. He doesn't tell Potter anything about how he felt at any of these times – not even about his mother's love, always. Not even about never having a choice in any of it.

Because explaining emotions is letting someone in. And Draco isn't ready to let anyone in, not to mention Potter. He's not sure he'll ever be ready to let Potter in.

Despite this, though, Draco makes his life story sound like some big confession, which is what they want. They want him to spill his guts so that he and Potter can function as a team. And despite his reluctance, Draco puts on a good show. And all of the other get-to-know-you activities were things that did, indeed, make Draco feel like he was back in primary school. They had to share stupid, surface things that didn't even _matter_; that told them _nothing_ real about each other.

_What's your favorite color? _Grey, Draco had said. Green, Potter had answered. Draco was mildly surprised. He'd been expecting gold or red.

_Do you have siblings?_ No. No.

_How old are you?_ Eighteen. Eighteen.

_What was your favorite subject at school?_ Potions, Draco had answered. Potter had made a face at that. "Why?" he'd asked, and Draco had had to explain all of the intricacies of potion making. About how it was all about how the ingredients worked together in perfect combinations, about how it was all in the potion-maker's hands. About how everything was about being absolutely perfect, and any mistake was yours and yours alone. Potter had stared blankly, and then stated that his favorite subject was Defense Against the Dark Arts, which had made Draco laugh a little.

So when Draco climbs into bed that night, it's with images of Potter floating in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Yes, I know this chapter's a fair bit shorter than the first two. They will be from now on. On the upside, updates will come once a week! I've begun submitting this for the Long Haul Competition on HPFC now - 1500 words a week.

Not sure if the fact that wizards live longer than Muggles is canon or fanon, but it's truth in this fic.

* * *

"Mother?" Draco asks softly into the dark room.

"I'm here, sweetheart," she says.

"_Lumos."_

Dim lamps flicker on in the corners of the room. Draco tries his hardest not to wince – his mother seems to have quit caring about her appearance at all. Merlin, he hates to think it, but she looks _old_ for the first time that Draco can remember. Dark bruises have grown beneath her eyes, and her once-shiny blonde hair is frayed and dulled.

He takes a few steps forward and kneels in front of her chair.

"Mum, are you all right?"

He's pleased that she meets his eyes, but her eyes are blank. Her lips turn up but her eyes don't smile.

"I'm okay, baby," she says.

He puts a hand gently on her cheek. "I worry about you, Mum."

"I know, Draco. I'm sorry."

He looks down, dropping his hand. Slowly, he stands. "I needed some supplies from the apothecary," he says. "I was wondering if you wanted to come with me, get out of the house."

"Not today, I don't think," she says, as he suspected she would.

"It could be good for you."

"No, I don't think so, baby."

Draco sighs, but then he nods. "All right, Mum." He kisses her cheek easily. "I'll see you later."

* * *

They're lined up in their pairs in front of the bellow-y instructor again. "Yesterday!" he snaps loudly. Draco barely contains his smirk as he notices that Weasley jumps again. "You met your partner! This is your first priority – know your partner. Trust–" he glares at Draco, who wants desperately to shrink away from the gaze but stands still "–your partner!" He pauses for effect, and then yells even louder. "However! You must also trust your training Auror! You must trust your training Auror to do his or her best by you – because you are putting your life in his or her hands! If you have a problem with your training Auror, talk to him about it! If you still have a problem, come talk to me."

All of the Senior Aurors – or what's left of them, post-war – are lined up against the wall behind the instructor. Draco has been surveying them the entire time, but all he's managed to do is pick out the one that he _least_ wants – a man who's slouched over with such absolute nonchalance that Draco can tell it's not an act; he honestly doesn't care. And the instructor is right – they are, in a way, entrusting their lives to these people. They're trusting them to train them well enough to survive. Draco doesn't need someone who doesn't care watching out for him.

"Ronald Weasley and Alice Jones, your training Auror is Zeus Dearborn." A slightly short, well muscled blonde man with unusually tanned skin waves easily at the pair.

"Neville Longbottom and Robert Zumberg, you will be paired with Amanda Matthews." A tiny, dark haired witch waves cheerfully, a broad grin across her face.

"Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, you have been assigned to work with Elladora Moody." Draco's gaze snaps to the face of the woman who waves at the pair. She has dark eyes and dirty blonde hair, and if Draco looks hard enough, he thinks he can see a resemblance between this woman and the late Alastor Moody – but maybe he's just looking for it. After all, he hadn't known "Mad-Eye" had any family.

Potter meets Draco's eyes questioningly, clearly wondering the same thing. Draco elegantly raises one shoulder in a half-shrug.

"Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have been paired with Michael Waters." The man who nods his head calmly at them is stretched out like a beanpole – tall and lanky. His arms are crossed lazily across his chest, and Draco can see that they are smattered with scars, which isn't particularly surprising, given his profession. He looks completely at ease, but Draco can tell that, even as Draco is sizing him up, he's sizing Draco up in return. Draco allows the corner of his mouth to twitch in appreciation; clearly the man is no slouch. He's perceptive and analytical – from a quick glance, Draco guesses him to be competent without being overstated, which he rather hopes will outweigh Potter's Gryffindorishness – and Draco rather thinks that this might go pretty well.

By the time Draco has finished his analysis, the instructor has nearly finished with his announcement of partnerships.

"And, finally, Ruby Simpson and Tanner White, you are paired with Marcus Harrington." The man who Draco picked out immediately as uncaring jerks his head reluctantly at a very tall woman and a man of average height standing together. Draco can't help but notice that neither of the trainees seem particularly extraordinary either – he mentally attempts to reprimand himself for judging people he doesn't know, but he can't really help himself, given he's typically right.

And little pieces begins to click together in Draco's mind. The instructor's response to Finnigan's question, the "random" partnerships, the fact that the two least prospective students were paired with the least enthusiastic Senior Auror.

And Draco suspects that it's not quite as cut and dried as it seems – that they haven't simply paired down the list of abilities – but by the looks of things, the best are paired with the best and the worst are paired with the worst. Most likely for elite teams and suspected dropouts. Draco assumes that along the middle, there's likely more variety among the skill sets, to create an overall average force, rather than some good pairings and some subpar pairings.

But then, of course, this is all simply his own speculation. He doesn't actually know.

"All right, listen up, you lot!" the instructor bellows. "I know we're all sick of the get to know you games by now, but I can't emphasize this enough. _You've got to trust your partners_. Auror work doesn't function if each member is always looking out for him or herself. Only this time, your Senior Auror will instruct you on the what and how. I want everyone back here by ten minutes to shifts' end at the latest! DISMISS!"

There's a bit of chaos as everyone attempts to sort themselves into their respective trios. Potter attempts to make his way straight toward Waters, who remains reclined against the wall, but Draco catches his arm. Potter looks at him questioningly, and Draco shakes his head. "Wait," he says simply. Potter frowns, his eyebrows furrowing. He wants to ask why, Draco knows, but he won't, and Draco's glad for that.

The frenzy around them clears quickly, but when Potter looks at him questioningly a second time, Draco shakes his head again. Purposefully, Draco directs his gaze to the left of Potter's head, keeping Waters in his periphery. He keeps his gaze carefully impassive, but he can tell Potter looks utterly befuddled – they're going to have to work on that. He can't have a partner who wears his heart out on his sleeve – it's too much of a vulnerability.

But Potter seems – surprisingly – perfectly content to follow Draco's lead, at this point. After a few minutes' worth of standoff, Waters smirks and pushes off from the wall gracefully. Draco can't hear his footsteps as he approaches.

"Damn," Waters says when he finally gets close. "They do think highly of me, don't they?" And he sticks out a hand to shake.

But when Potter shakes his hand, it's with a frown on his face. "What do you mean, sir?"

Laughing lightly, the man shakes his head. "Mike, please, or Waters if you must." He grins. "And why don't you ask your partner. I think he knows, at least some bit."

Potter turns his questioning eyes upon Draco once more. Draco shrugs. "I'm only guessing," he says. "I could be wrong."

Something humorous flashes in Waters' eyes, and his lips twitch – and Draco can tell immediately that he can only notice because Waters' allowed the external sign to show. "Ah, but you don't think you are, do you, Draco? And you aren't much used to being wrong."

Draco allows a flash of appreciation for the other man's perceptiveness to cross his face. "No," he murmurs. "I'm not." Turning to Potter, he says, "They assigned trios based on skill level – the best with the best, the worst with the worst, and everybody else all shuffled in the middle – they've already decided who's going to be the elite, who's going to be the drop outs, and everybody else just gets to be average. You, Potter, we all know they expect great things from you. That means they expect something from me, too. That means they think Waters here is pretty damn good, to be our Senior Auror."

Waters is smiling.

"And they were right, kid, to expect something from you. There's not many that could pick up that much by the second day."

Draco shrugs. "We learn the skills that we have to in order to survive," he says calmly. He desperately wants to rub the inside of his left wrist, but he doesn't. _It isn't there anymore._ "And I'm no kid."

"We do," Waters agrees. "And you're not. But I'll call you that anyway, because you're all kids to me. Going on forty years I've been doing this job – though I'm by no means the oldest."

"Potter, it's generally considered impolite to gape," Draco drawls, unable to help himself. Potter's mouth snaps shut.

"Forty years?" he asks.

The corner of Waters' mouth twitches. "I forgot. Muggle-raised?" Potter nods. "Forty years is… a while, at this job, but it's by no means a record. I think we've got someone going on fifty, and Alastor Moody was at 79, if the rumors are true."

"I always forget that wizards live quite a bit longer than Muggles," Potter murmurs.

Draco allows the tiny flash of disdain to cross his face, knowing Potter won't see it – not that it would surprise Potter anyway. Waters sees it, though, and he shakes his head.

"No, Draco, you're thinking about it wrong."

Draco raises an eyebrow at him questioningly.

Waters smirks slightly. "Harry doesn't think in wizard context, he thinks in Muggle context. But you, you think in wizard context, and probably couldn't think in Muggle terms if you tried." He shrugs. "Partnerships – _great_ partnerships – are about balance. Once excels where the other's weakness is, and vice versa."

And Draco is mildly impressed. Waters got a lot from that one tiny flash of disdain. Slowly, he nods.

Waters scans his face for a moment, and then he turns around and starts walking away.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Sorry. Waters likes to swear occasionally. I don't seem to have control over his mouth.

_Previously: "Waters scans his face for a moment, and then he turns around and starts walking away."_

.

"Hey!" Potter yelps, and he goes to jog after the man. Draco catches his arm again and shakes his head, and then walks calmly after Waters. Potter shrugs and follows at a similar pace. "How do you always know?" he asks softly.

"Know what?"

"What to do?"

The corner of his lips twitches in amusement as Draco responds. "I know how to read people, Potter. Every action says more than a hundred words ever would, and every word reveals so much more, if you just know how to read it."

Potter purses his lips, contemplative. "Can you teach me?"

Though his face remains passive, Draco is pleased. Maybe Potter isn't _entirely _hopeless. "I can try."

Potter grins. "You're such a politician. Do you ever give a straight answer to anything?"

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't." Draco smirks, and Potter laughs aloud. Draco refuses to let his puzzlement show on his face, but he truly doesn't understand how this is possible. As far as Draco is concerned, there is a massive rift between him and Potter – a gap too large to ever be patched up. They can't just slap some glue on it and call it good, because they can't erase the words, the actions. And Draco knows that he can never forget.

But Potter seems to disagree. Potter seems to be able to get past things so easily. He doesn't even seem to see the chasm between them. Draco almost envies him for this, but he can't understand it. Potter should _hate_ him. Potter _did_ hate him. Draco mentally shudders, remembering the day that Potter had cast _sectumpsempra_ on him. That was the day he first realized just _how much _Potter hated him. That curse wasn't anything trivial.

That was the day he realized that Potter was as human as anyone else.

And when Draco looks at Potter now, he can still see _that_ Potter. Even though Potter's different now – and not just because of the glasses – Draco can still see the Potter from that day in Myrtle's bathroom. He can still see the Potter who believed nothing good could ever come from Draco. He can still see the Potter that hated him. Draco sees both who Potter was and who he is, and that is why he can never forget. But he can act, and maybe that will be enough. He can pretend to forget.

In front of him, Waters slips through a low, unassuming door. Draco holds up a hand as Potter moves to enter. Immediately, Draco raises a finger to his lips to silence the question he knows is forming. Potter nods.

Draco tilts his head, listening. The only sound is the measured breaths of air from both himself and Potter. No noise comes from within the room. Despite this – or perhaps because of it – Draco draws his wand. He keeps his tread light as he eases his way through the door and his eyes flick around the small, dark room, taking everything in. He doesn't see Waters, but he doesn't let his wand down – he has absolutely no doubt that this is a test. Silently, he beckons Potter in, grateful that the man has enough brains to have followed Draco's example and drawn his wand.

Draco tilts his head, gesturing for Potter to search the left half of the room while he searches the right. The room is silent until Potter's yelp. Draco whirls around to see a yellow spell rebound off a hastily assembled shield charm as Potter hits the floor in a dive. Draco shoots off a Body Bind in the direction the spell originated from and finds himself under immediate fire and forced to cover himself.

Potter manages to fire a few spells off from his position on the floor and Draco himself a few defensive spells before Potter is hit subsequently with a white beam and then a red one, and the spells coming at Draco increase in pace. Draco tries to advance toward Potter, to figure out what he was incapacitated with and possibly to revive him, but he is forced to retreat under the strength of the attack.

Suddenly, the world goes black.

.

Draco groans at the familiar sensation of waking up from a Stunner. He opens his eyes and sits up to find Waters grinning in front of him, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"You've got damn good instincts, kid."

"Thanks," Draco mutters bitterly. Waters laughs.

"I mean that."

Draco winces. "How'd you get me?"

Waters raises an eyebrow elegantly – almost too elegantly, because the mannerism nearly seems out-of-place on his face. "Not all spells travel in a straight line," he says simply.

Draco nods. "I'll remember that."

"Damn right you will! That, and every other lesson that lands you flat on your back."

Draco barely stops himself from wincing a second time as he rubs the back of his head.

Waters grins lazily. "Yeah, you'll feel that for a while. You fell like a bag of rocks." Draco allows the grimace to flit across his features, and Waters laughs. "But you'll remember."

Draco nods, and Waters stands nimbly and walks toward Potter. "_Rennervate."_ Draco gingerly eases himself off the floor, testing mobility as Potter blinks into consciousness. Everything beyond the throbbing in his head seems to be in order, and that's tolerable.

Waters crosses his feet and gracefully sinks down until he's sitting cross-legged next to Potter.

Potter sits up slowly, obviously having been under a Stunner before – sitting up too fast tends to create a major headache afterward. "What, exactly, was that first spell?" he asks.

"_Immobulus._ It's not very common to use on people, but I've never understood why not. It's immensely effective." Finished speaking, Waters unfolds himself as he stands. "I'll admit, I'm surprised."

"By what?" Potter asks. Draco steps closer.

"You." Potter furrows his brows, puzzled, and Waters chuckles before explaining. "I wasn't really expecting you, Harry, to be the type to follow another's lead so easily. I fully expected the both of you to butt heads over who was going to lead."

Draco takes another step forward, intrigued to hear Potter's response. He'd expected the same.

Potter shrugs. "I know how to follow when I know that the other person knows the situation better than I do," he says nonchalantly. As though he didn't just admit inferiority – at least in one aspect – to his rival.

And Draco almost wants to explode. He wants to yell at Potter that it's just not possible to be that forgiving unless you suffer from memory loss. He wants to shake the man and explain to him that _people hold grudges_, something Potter just doesn't seem to understand.

But, of course, he does none of these things. Instead, he just nods serenely, accepting the compliment with dignity. Waters' eyes are dancing with amusement, and Draco can't help the tiniest sprig of jealousy that pops up at Waters' skill. He reads people like they're leisure novels.

"Experience," Waters murmurs. Potter shoots him a puzzled look, but Draco just nods. "You'll learn." Potter smiles, assuming that Waters is talking to him, but Draco knows that he's actually talking to both of them.

Abruptly, and for the second time in the last half hour, Waters turns and begins walking. The corner of Draco's lips twitches, and Potter just shrugs from his vantage point on the floor. For a split second, Draco contemplates helping him up – but Draco still can't trust Potter. He just can't. And he can't stop himself from expecting Potter to pull Draco down if Draco tried to help him up. Some part of him doubts that Potter would, but a bigger part of him just can't get past the image.

Shrugging it off, Draco follows Waters. Potter isn't far behind him. By the time Draco follows Waters through the far door and into a vast room, Waters is at the other end of the room already, staring at the wall.

"They say we're supposed to get to know one another," he says calmly. His voice echoes. "To build trust. And I think they expect us to do something similar to what you did yesterday." He turns around. Draco crossed half of the room before stopping where he now stands, Potter at his left shoulder. "And I understand the principle behind it. It's a good, solid idea. Partners need to trust each other – wholly and completely." Draco barely stops himself from averting his eyes. "But I don't think," Waters continues, "that knowing someone's favorite color will make you trust them any more."

Draco wholeheartedly agrees.

"I think trust is earned by actions – actions that _matter_." His eyes flicker from Draco to Potter and back again as he crosses the distance between them. "Not actions that are _safe._ Trusting someone in a sheltered environment does _not_ mean that you trust them in the field." He meets Potter's eyes. Potter, Gryffindor that he is, looks down. Draco sighs inwardly. That tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve is dangerous.

Waters' voice is low as he continues. "This isn't going to be a sheltered environment. I think you should know that. I don't hold back, and I'm not going to stop either of you from hurting the other. Because that's how you learn: failure. You will fail. And it will hurt." Potter looks like he's actually intimidated. Draco is rather impressed, instead.

"But I know the point of no return. And I know what line not to cross. And I won't let it get there, _ever_. And that's where you have to learn to trust me."


	5. Chapter 5

_Previously: "But I know the point of no return. And I know what line not to cross. And I won't let it get there, ever. And that's where you have to learn to trust me."_

.

Without warning, Waters is suddenly sitting cross-legged on the floor. Draco blinks. Potter gapes, and Draco sighs. "Potter," he can't help but drawl. "What did I say about gaping?"

For the first time since the war ended, Potter shoots a brief glare at Draco, and Draco can't help but smirk in return. "Shove it, Draco," Potter mutters softly. Draco barely restrains a full out grin from spreading across his face. He'd forgotten just how much he enjoyed getting a rise out of the man.

"As much as I'm enjoying the _wit_–" Waters draws out the word, blatantly expressing his sarcasm "–of this conversation, I did have rather different plans for this shift. Productive ones." He flicks his eyes from them to the floor, silently instructing them to sit.

Draco sits, but – _Merlin, Potter brings out the cheeky side of him, doesn't he? –_ can't help a last remark. "I think it's quite productive, actually. I'm teaching Potter not to wear his heart out on his sleeve like such a _Gryffindor._"

Waters' eyes dance in amusement. "You've got spice, Draco. I like that. Would it frighten you to hear that I myself was once a Gryffindor?"

Draco is internally reeling, and he's sure his shock is obvious in his face. "You were?"

Waters laughs jovially. "No, and I never said that I was." He grins mischievously. "I simply asked if it would frighten you." Draco looks at the ground, cursing, as he so often does, his pale skin that colors so easily. Waters is still laughing as he adds, "No, I was a Ravenclaw."

"I'd thought so," Draco murmurs to the hardwood floors.

Humor still lacing his voice, Waters says, "Yes, I thought it probable that you had." He sobers slightly. "You'll find, Draco, that no one house is elite over the others. To truly be the _best_, to single yourself out, you must harness the traits of _all_ of the houses – find the best in all of them."

Draco nods his head, feeling sullen but refusing to let it show on his face. He feels like a child again, being reprimanded for thinking the wrong way. It's not a pleasant feeling, nor is it one he's used to – not anymore. But he nods and he bears it, because sometimes that's the only viable option, and it's something he got good at in the past year, when his house was inhabited by a monster. He quickly developed the skill of nodding along and ignoring insults to his pride – for the insults were certainly plentiful.

Waters sits in contemplative silence for a moment, and some part of Draco knows that he's giving Draco time to sulk. After the moment passes, however, he claps his hands together loudly, and Potter jumps. Draco wants to snort at the reaction, but that would be undignified. His eyes twinkle in amusement, though, and Waters sees it. Draco is beginning to think the man has an inhuman intuition when it comes to reading people.

"You're amused," Waters notes. Draco nods. Potter attempts to scowl and fails, which only serves to heighten Draco's amusement.

"I shouldn't be. It's a dangerous trait. But it really is amusing."

"What's a dangerous trait?" Potter asks.

Waters' expression is amiable as he speaks before Draco can. "Draco thinks it's dangerous that you express so much emotion so blatantly. And, in a way, it is. Emotions give an enemy insight into your thoughts, and your plans. They're the best predictor of action, if you can discern them."

Potter frowns. "I'm not _that_ easy to read, am I?"

Draco snickers. "Please, Potter."

Potter scowls, muttering the word, "Harry," under his breath.

Draco mentally reprimands himself before continuing. "Harry, then. You may be the easiest person to read I've ever met – well, excluding Weasley."

"I'm not-"

"You bite your lip when you're anxious, or uncomfortable. You clench your fists or grit your teeth when you're angry. When you're upset or disappointed, the corners of your mouth turn down, every time. When you're happy but you don't want to be blatant about it, your lips twitch periodically. Shall I continue? Because that doesn't even account for half of what you reveal with your hands."

Po- Harry looks at Waters for confirmation, and Waters just shrugs, nodding. "Sounds accurate from what I've seen, though of course I haven't known you as long."

Pott- Harry scowls. "Sounds to me like you spend too much time staring at me," he mutters darkly, and though Draco knows that it's merely a distractor, he responds anyway.

"Know thine enemy," he murmurs softly.

Waters nods crisply. "Know thine enemy indeed."

"Is that what I am to you, then? The enemy?" Potter almost sounds… sad, as he says it, which baffles Draco – he would've expected anger.

Draco makes sure he doesn't answer too quickly, timing his hesitation so that it seems as genuine as possible. "No. Not anymore." He's not sure how much of that is a lie, but he knows it's not entirely true. The things that he doesn't even do consciously, things like keeping Potter – _Harry, dammit_ – in the corner of his vision and shifting instinctively with _Harry_'s movement, reveal that he still tracks Pot- _Harry_ like he would an enemy.

Waters is staring at Draco intently. Draco knows from experience that averting his gaze would tell Waters too much, so he holds the man's eyes for a moment, and then another, before Potter- _Harry _coughs, seemingly unnerved.

Draco and Waters both look at him, amused, and Potter – _Harryharryharryharry_, Draco reprimands himself – shrugs, unabashed. "Productive things?" he asks, his voice too innocent.

The corner of Draco's mouth twitches. Waters smiles. "All right then," he agrees. He lays his hands on his lap, almost absentmindedly – the first time Draco would even _think _about using that particular adjective to describe the man. He looks contemplative for a brief moment before he speaks again. "To figure out where we should go, we have to first know where we _are_. And, on a very basic level, it looks like we're in a good place. The both of you have good instincts. Harry, you hit the ground to avoid my first spell. Why?"

Potter shrugs and Draco sighs internally. It's suchan_ undignified_ motion. Potter- _HARRY_ finally says, "I didn't have time to put a shield spell that I was reasonably confident would work."

"But you did put up a shield," Waters points out.

"Well, yeah." _Yes_, Draco mentally corrects. "But it was a basic one, and it wasn't worth assuming it would work only to find myself on the floor for different reasons."

Waters nods. "Very good. You've already got something down that most Wizards take years to learn – sometimes magic fails. Have a backup plan." Potter smiles at the praise. "If I'm perfectly honest," Waters continues, "I'm not particularly surprised that you have good instincts. With what you've been through, I think you'd be dead as a doornail if you didn't."

Potter laughs. "That's not instincts. That's luck."

"You must be pretty damn lucky, then, kid."

Potter laughs again. "You don't even know," he replies.

And Draco frowns internally. Potter spent sixteen years living with relatives that hated him, he faced one of the most evil beings on the planet too many times to count, he faced public ridicule time after time, and he considers himself _lucky_? Draco will never understand him.

Waters turns to Draco next. "Now you, though, Draco, you surprised me. The moment you saw Harry fall, you attempted to move toward him. What was your intent?"

Harry looks at Draco upon hearing this information, curious at the revelation.

"I intended to see if I could revive him, and, should that be impossible for me, to at least attempt to move him out of the way."

"Why?"

Draco purses his lips slightly before responding. "Because I'm no idiot. You're more experienced than me by far – I knew better than to think I could possibly attempt to defeat you alone. With Po- Harry working with me, I calculated that, although the odds were still astronomically against us, at least they were better."

Waters nods. "I'd thought that was going to be your reasoning. And here's why I find that surprising – have you ever worked with a partner before?" Draco shakes his head in the negative. Waters was clearly expecting that answer. "No, I didn't think so. I imagine you're used to being surrounded by a lot of people you don't know you can trust, am I right?"

Draco nods. He's used to being surrounded by people, who, while they all claimed to be on the same side, were really only looking out for their own interests. He's used to trusting no one but himself.

"But the fact that you immediately attempted to advance toward and revive your partner, that would imply a certain degree of trust, wouldn't it?"

Draco frowns. "No, I disagree. Or, rather, it depends on your definition of trust. I believe that Po- _Harry_ will fight with me, not against me, and if you want to call that trust, you can, but I don't. I believe that he'll fight on the same side as me because he's required to – because he's been assigned to. By being assigned as partners, we've been assigned common enemies. He _has_ to fight with me."

Waters looks like he's considering this deeply. "I think that's some degree of trust, though. Because, in a way, you have to trust him to honor that."

Draco laughs dryly. "You'll soon find out – Potter's far too noble for his own good."

And Potter, who's been watching this conversation with avid interest, chimes in with a sullenly corrective "Harry."


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: We move slightly into the realm of possible implied past abuse in this chapter, just as a warning. I don't see it becoming a big plot factor, but I've no idea where this story is going, honestly, so it could. _

_Previously: Draco laughs dryly. "You'll soon find out – Potter's far too noble for his own good." / And Potter, who's been watching this conversation with avid interest, chimes in with a sullenly corrective "Harry."_

.

"Too noble?" Waters asks, amusement lacing his tone.

Draco nods solemnly. "Too noble," he affirms. Potter looks indignant.

"I am not _too noble!_ I'm just noble enough, thank you very much!"

The corner of Draco's mouth twitches at the intensity of Potter's – _Harry's_ – intense reaction. Draco allows himself to give in to the urge to ruffle P- Harry's hair condescendingly. "Sure you are, Po- Harry."

Potter scowls, and Draco smirks in return.

Waters' eyes flick between them, seeing, as always, more than what's visible on the surface. His eyebrows are furrowed in thoughtful concentration.

Draco raises a questioning eyebrow at him, and Waters just shakes his head. Draco frowns, causing Waters to allow himself a small smile. This makes Draco want to scowl in return, but he restrains himself.

After a moment, Waters speaks. "Frankly, the two of you are both pretty damn good already. Experience has taught you a lot, and it will teach you a lot more. That's not, of course, to say that I'm not going to teach you – hell, I'll teach you everything I know; I'd be a fool if I didn't. But don't expect to learn it all from me, because I won't spoon-feed you. You're a hell of a lot smarter than that."

Waters frowns, staring at Pott- _Harry_. Draco shifts his gaze to see that Potter is staring pointedly at the hardwood floor. Waters looks contemplative for a moment, before something seems to click into place.

"You flinch every time I swear," he says flatly. Potter looks up, meeting Waters' eyes. Slowly, Pott- _Harry _nods.

Waters glances between the two of them. "Neither of you swear. Draco, you may not react to it, but you don't actually say the words yourself."

Potter purses his lips in a disagreement but doesn't say anything aloud. Waters frowns at him. "You don't concur?"

Pot – _Harry_, Draco corrects himself firmly. _Harry Harry Harry._ – Harry shakes his head. "I've seen Draco swear before."

Draco frowns, contemplating this for a moment before he nods in remembrance. He'd momentarily lost his composure with Pot- _Harry _while awaiting the verdict at his trial. It was a rare moment of extreme, surprising frustration, and Draco had been too worried to modulate his reactions as he typically would.

"Once," Draco murmurs.

Pot- Harry nods. "Once."

Waters scans Draco's face, perceptive as always.

"Now you, Draco, I understand. It's too _common_, right? Too _plebeian._ It's below you – so you've been taught for as long as you can remember. No one swears in your household." The corner of Draco's mouth curves up in amused agreement. Waters turns his gaze to Po- Harry. "But you, Harry… I'll admit, I'm curious."

"I don't swear," Harry says simply. Waters laughs.

"Well, I know that! Tell me something I can't get from a two minute conversation with you! Tell me _why_!"

Pott- Harry grimaces, but then he says softly, "My uncle used to swear a lot."

After just a moment of silence, Waters waves his hand in a 'carry on' sort of motion. "And…?"

Potter frowns. He bites his lip, and Draco nudges him with his elbow – an implied reminder that that's one of Po- Harry's tells – after which Potter- _Harry_ stops, looking thoroughly reprimanded. "Sorry," he murmurs, before speaking up. "Vulgarity generally meant I'd done something he didn't like, which meant it was typically followed by something unpleasant – a few days without food, or time in the cupboard. Or pain."

And Draco senses that, for once, the surprise that flashes across Waters' face is genuine – not something he _allowed_ to be seen. And Harry seems to sense the same, because he hastily tries to backtrack. "It's not… That makes it sound worse than it actually…" Harry sighs. "He didn't like me, and I knew that. But they were – are my family."

This doesn't seem to reassure Waters much. "The cupboard?"

Po- Harry shrugs. "The cupboard under the stairs. It was my bedroom, until my Hogwarts letter came." And Harry says this in an entirely neutral tone, as though it's perfectly normal to keep a child in the cupboard under the stairs for ten years. And Draco would bet that the cupboard under the stairs at Potter's relatives' house is rather smaller than the cupboard at Malfoy Manor, where the staircases span broad rooms. Though Pott- Harry had mentioned the day before that his Aunt and Uncle were horrible, Draco hadn't imagined quite _that._

_Who locks a child in a cupboard?_ Draco wonders, and for the first time he truly begins to realize that Potter, who always seemed to have everything all together all the time, is maybe just as wounded, just as broken – if not more so – as the rest of them.

It's almost disheartening to learn. People look up to Potter, after all. People see him as their hero, and they want their hero to be perfect, flawless, an idol. And Draco realizes that this is what Potter means when he says he never wanted to be their hero – he never wanted to be idolized. He only wanted to be normal. And Draco, who has always yearned for so much more than _ordinary_, can hardly fathom it. Draco wants to be _extraordinary_, because being extraordinary gives power.

_But do I still? _Draco wonders. Because now he has seen what power can do. He has seen how power corrupts, power destroys. And he has seen how truly transitory power can be – near impossible to gain, but a thousand times harder to keep. Power, and the quest for it, destroyed his family, put his father in prison, ruined his mother, decimated the Malfoy name. A thirst for an immortal power tore apart the soul of Lord Voldemort, and the heady rush of power took him down in the end, because it made him arrogant.

_I have seen what power can do. Do I really want that?_

And Draco knows that the answer is, undoubtably, no. He doesn't want the kind of power that his father wanted, and he doesn't want the kind of power that the Dark Lord strove for. He doesn't want to rule the world, or even the ministry. But Draco is a Slytherin, and seeing what power can do has not drained him of ambition. Draco will never be content with being ordinary, and neither, he suspects, will Potter. Oh, Po- Harry thinks he want to be normal. And perhaps he'll enjoy a touch of normalcy, if he can ever attain it. But normal, for a man like Potter, with a past full of adventure, would be far to boring to provide contentment for long. Pott- Harry wouldn't be satisfied with normal, Draco knows, any more than he himself would.

They can be extraordinary, Draco knows. Because Waters is right – they're opposites, in a lot of ways, and that will serve them well. And he honestly believes that Potter can be taught to keep his expressions under control, eventually. And Potter- Harry has already asked Draco to teach him how to read people.

Draco is interrupted from his musing by Waters' voice. "Pain?" the man asks softly, and for the first time, Draco realizes that Waters isn't as young as he seems so much of the time.

Harry shrugs. "I guess that… I promise you that it sounds much worse than it actually was. He didn't… _beat_ me, or anything like that." Harry shakes his head. "I'd rather not."

Draco frowns. "P- Harry, there are… authorities, for-"

"It wasn't that bad," Harry says immediately. "And I don't want to talk about it."

Draco raises an eyebrow. Waters frowns pensively. Though neither wants to, both of them allow the subject to drop out of respect. After a moment, Waters conjures a spell dummy. Standing with ease, he gestures to it. "Show me what you know. You must use a different spell, hex, or curse every single time. Nonverbal, if you can. You will take turns spell casting, but I'd like it to be seamless, if you can. One after another after another. Rapid-fire. And for Merlin's sake, please try not to hit each other. If you can't manage that much, you're in much worse shape than I suspect."

At the look he gets from P- Harry, Waters shakes his head. "That was a joke, Harry. I really don't suspect either of you will hit the other."

Harry shrugs. He stares at the dummy for a moment, contemplative. Eventually, a jet of red light hits the dummy – it appears to faint, but only for a moment.

"The spells take effect, but only for an instant, so I can see what spells you cast but it'll keep you on your toes. If you last long enough at a quick pace, the dummy will begin to fire back, so be prepared for defensive spells."

Draco hits the dummy with a mild blasting curse and immediately regrets it, at the look from Waters. Too violent a choice, for a first curse, apparently. He's not used to this – empathy for the enemy. He's used to, "Show no mercy." He's used to, "The end justifies the means, and the greater end justifies the lesser end." It's hard to retrain his brain, to chuck a lot of what he was taught as a child out the window and start anew, but he has to, with some things. He sighs inwardly. _I knew this wasn't going to be easy._


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: I don't know much about physical self-defense. I've done basic research, and that's about it. Apologies if I messed anything up._

_._

_Previously: "I knew this wasn't going to be easy."_

.

"Arms up! Up! Higher, dammit!" Waters sighs, frustrated. "No. Up with your elbows! Protect your face, not your chest! A blow to the face can incapacitate you, a blow to the chest will simply wind you."

Draco lifts his elbows again, refusing to let a grimace cross his face. Physical combat seems… unnecessary, at best. Torturous at worst. Draco isn't exactly used to physical exertion, and to date he's never lost his wand in a fight, so he can't exactly see the relevance of what they're doing right now.

But Waters has said that it doesn't matter if you're the most powerful wizard alive – there's no sense at all in taking chances. An ordinary wizard, take away his wand, he's helpless. Waters isn't training them to be ordinary. And he isn't training them to be helpless.

So they learn physical combat.

Waters paces around Draco in a circle, inspecting his stance: the set of his legs, the height of his elbows, the set of his fists, the tension in his muscles. Eventually, he nods. "Passable."

Draco barely keeps from wincing at the harsh assessment.

Waters slips into a similar stance across from Draco – although he looks far more natural and at ease than Draco does.

"You first." Draco allows his eyebrows to furrow in confusion in lieu of asking a question aloud. The corner of Waters' mouth twitches in amusement at Draco's expression. "You first," he says again. "Offensive."

This time Draco keeps his expression carefully modulated, though he's quite startled. Waters wants him to attack? Draco shrugs mentally, unable to figure another meaning for Waters' words. He swings a fist.

In an instant, Draco finds himself flat on his back, staring dazedly up at the ceiling, Waters' boot held at his throat. Waters had caught his swinging fist and used Draco's own momentum to throw him to the ground.

"Ow," Draco comments wryly. Waters laughs.

"Your fist was too wide," he says, offering a hand up. "Keep it tight – it's faster, and it gives your opponent less of an opening."

Draco reluctantly takes the offered hand. He stands, dusting himself off. "I'll remember that."

"Damn right you will."

Draco grins. "Is that your motto, or something?"

Waters smirks, raising one eyebrow elegantly. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't."

He turns to Potter. "Your turn?"

Wariness in his eyes, Potter nods. "All right then."

They spend the rest of the shift alternating between basic physical combat and spell-work. By the time Waters tells them that it's time to return for end-shift roll call, Draco wants to collapse on the floor and not get up for hours. He's not sure he's _ever _done this much in a day. He's used to school, with periods of work alternating with periods of down time. He's used to summer, with very few time-constrained demands at all. He's not used to this, this nonstop frenzy of action.

Potter blows a strand of messy hair away from his face, but, unlike Draco, he doesn't seem like this exertion is anything unusual – and because Potter wears his heart so dramatically on his sleeve, Draco knows that it honestly must not be anything unusual. And since Pot- Harry has the same experience with Hogwarts as Draco does, it must be the summers that are different. Draco can't help but wonder what sort of summer prepares a bloke for a six hour training shift of nonstop physical and mental exertion.

Potter- Harry blows his bangs out of his face again, and Draco realizes that his own hair is likely as all-over-the-place as Potter's usually is, rather than carefully in place. Pott- Harry seems to have realized the same thing – he ruffles Draco's hair in a purposeful imitation of Draco's earlier similar motion.

Smirking, he murmurs, "You should keep it this way."

Draco doesn't allow the confusion and surprise to cross his face – rather, he just smirks in return. "I didn't think it was possible for yours to get any messier, Potter, but apparently it is."

Potter grins, and cheerfully corrects, "Harry!"

"Of course," Draco murmurs, a light laugh lacing the words at Harry's stubborn insistence. "Habit, you know."

"One last thing," Waters says before they leave the room. "Aurors' robes. Most ridiculous uniform ever invented. No one ever seems to realize just how impractical they are, both because robes restrict your range of motion and because that shade of red is ridiculously conspicuous, whether in a crowd or in the dark. Don't bother, except for formalities. Otherwise, wear whatever gives you the best range of motion without tripping you. Dark colors."

And, without another word, he turns around and leads them back to the main office for roll. After roll, Draco glances up, sees Weasley making a direct line for Potter, mutters, "See you tomorrow," and turns to make for the Atrium to Apparate home.

He barely makes it out of the Aurors' Offices before he hears Potter's voice behind him. "Draco, wait!"

Sharply, Draco turns around, but Potter is alone. Draco is surprised by just how relieved he is by this fact – not long ago he would have been equally aggravated by the appearance of Potter alone or Potter with Weasley.

"What do you need, Po- Harry?"

Harry grins at Draco's near-slip. "I wanted to ask you something."

Those words immediately put Draco on his toes. Generally those words are followed by something dangerous or threatening or personal.

"What is it?"

"I wanted to ask you for a favor."

Potter is not going in the right direction with his method of prefacing his question. Draco is now even warier. Favors aren't usually things that Draco would normally do, nor are they typically in his best interests.

"All right. What do you need?" Draco says carefully, ensuring that his words cannot be taken as a pre-agreement no matter how obtuse Potter is.

"I need you to testify on behalf of Sirius Black."

Draco frowns. "You want me to testify on the behalf of a mass murderer?"

Pott- Harry shakes his head. "No. I want you to testify on behalf of Sirius Black." Harry pauses for a moment. "He didn't kill anyone."

Pursing his lips, Draco says, "But I didn't know him. How would my testimony even help?"

"You met Pettigrew, didn't you? Peter Pettigrew, alias Wormtail?"

Draco hums at the memory. "Yes."

"That's what we need. We have character witnesses and multiple people who can testify to what Sirius said happened, but we don't have anyone who can attest to the existence of a still living Pettigrew after Sirius allegedly killed him."

Draco frowns as something occurs to him. "Why can't you? You saw him. In the Manor."

Harry laughs dryly, humorlessly. "Yes, but Ron, Hermione, and I are all void from testifying to that because of an unprovable accusation of a Confundus Charm on the same topic years ago. Unfortunately, Snape can't exactly rescind that accusation anymore."

Draco nods in understanding. "Do you even know where Black is hiding?"

Potter bites his lip and stares determinedly at the floor. His voice is thick when he finally replies. "He's… He's dead, actually."

Draco swallows. "Oh." he is amazed at his own lack of eloquence. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

Po- Harry shrugs. "It was… it was a few years ago." He says this as though that makes it all right, but Draco can tell that the mere thought seems to be painful to Potter.

And Draco feels oddly detached, for all that Sirius Black was his mother's cousin.

"Then why…?" Draco doesn't quite know how to ask what he wants to know.

"Why do I want to absolve him?" Draco nods. "Because he deserves it." Harry bites his lip again. "Because he spent his whole life trying to prove that he was better than his family, more than just a Black. And he _was_ – he was so much better than that. And he deserves to have everyone understand that."

Draco nods – that's definitely something he understands: rising above the reputation that comes attached to a last name. Proving to people that there's more than just their preconceived notions.

But Draco is still a Slytherin. "So what's in this for me?" he asks, smirking so that Potter isn't offended, but still serious.

Potter blinks, surprised. After a moment's contemplation, he says, "I'll let you convert me. You want me to be a Slytherin, right? To not wear my heart on my sleeve, to consider every aspect of a situation before I act?"

Draco nods.

"I'll let you teach me all of that. Whatever you want."

Draco contemplates this very seriously. It means a great amount of time from him, and teaching a Gryffindor won't be easy. But if he can, at the very least, teach Potter to conceal his emotions, it will benefit both of them in the long run, he knows.

"You wanted lessons anyway, though."

Potter shrugs. "Well, yes. But I was going to retain the right to disregard any advice that I felt wasn't something I was capable of or comfortable with. This way, you have, essentially, free reign."

Draco knows his eyes are glittering almost deviously, just by the look of trepidation on Potter's face.

"Free reign?"

Potter nods, swallowing. "Free reign," he agrees, his voice not nearly as strong as it was the first time.

Draco extends a hand. "Deal."

Though Potter's face looks like he thinks he just made a deal with the devil, Potter shakes.


	8. Chapter 8

_Previously: "Though Potter's face looks like he thinks he just made a deal with the devil, Potter shakes."_

_._

Draco flicks the light on in the front hall, sighing in a sort of relief – because as invigorating as Auror training is, it's intense. And he is simultaneously relieved to be home and excited for tomorrow. It's an odd contradiction.

He shrugs off his coat and hangs it in the front closet.

"Wilma?"

The last remaining house-elf attributable to the Malfoy name appears in front of him. "Master is home! Wilma is not hearing Master come in! Wilma is being very sorry."

Draco shakes his head. "No, Wilma, that's fine; you're fine. I was just wondering how she is today."

Wilma bows her head, tugging anxiously on her long ears. "Wilma is sorry, Master, but Mistress is not letting Wilma in her room today."

Draco purses his lips.

"Wilma is very sorry, Master."

Shaking his head again, Draco says, "It isn't your fault, Wilma." There were days when Draco wouldn't have shown an ounce of kindness to Wilma – days when he _didn't _show her an ounce of kindness – but there came a point where Draco was sick of seeing cruelty. He saw so much cruelty to people simply because they were thought of as _less_, and there came a point where he just didn't want to be a part of that any more.

"She's still there?"

Wilma nods violently.

"Thank you, Wilma."

"Yes, Master, of course."

Draco's steps are heavier than they have been all day as he weaves his way through the maze of hallways to his mother's room. The door is firmly closed, and no light shines through the small slit underneath.

He raps his knuckles lightly on the wood frame. "Mum?"

When there's no reply, he knocks a second time. "Mum, it's Draco. Are you there?"

No answer again. He turns the knob, but it resists: locked. He pulls out his wand and taps the doorknob lightly, casting a silent _Alohomora_. The lock clicks quietly.

"Mum?" he calls one last time. When there is still no reply, he turns the knob and opens the door.

The room is dark, the curtains drawn, the lamps unlit. After a moment, his eyes adjust to the lack of light and he can see that the bed is made in its usual pristine fashion, something that's still an unbreakable habit for his mother. His eyes skim over the too-neat room – it feels almost _unlived-in_ – until they finally rest upon her too-thin frame. She sits in a chair that's turned toward the window, her eyes staring out, but the curtains are drawn, so she stares at nothing. She is listless, apathetic, languorous.

And he is terrified. This terrifies him more than anything else ever could, this shell that was once him mother. And he believes, truly, that she's still there, only buried. And he's trying to find her, only he doesn't know how to look, because he's never known how to connect with her, not really.

He's trying. He's trying desperately, but he's finding out that he doesn't really know her at all, that his mother is a stranger, that he's not sure how to help her. He's not good with people, not really. He can pretend and bluff and pull of smooth and savvy all he likes, but when it comes down to it he never truly gets to know anyone at all.

And suddenly, that sinks in. He doesn't really know anyone, not really. If he doesn't even know his own mum...

He sighs, sitting gently on the edge of her bed, leaning toward her. Now is not the time to consider his failure as a human being.

"Mum?" he whispers softly. Her head turns slowly toward him, and he can see that her eyes are bloodshot and bruised. "Mum, are you all right?"

Her lips curl up in that caricature of a smile that he hates so much. "I'm fine, baby."

Anguished, he shakes his head. "Don't lie to me."

Her voice is air. "I'm not lying."

And he wonders if she truly believes that. He wonders if perhaps she can't accept the truth – that she's falling apart, piece by piece – and instead she believes, delusionally, that she's honestly okay.

It's this part that scares him more than anything else – that she might not even see the problem. Because if she can't see that there even _is _a problem, she will never begin to get better.

"Mother…"

And she meets his eyes for the first time since he entered the room. "I'm all right, Draco. I'm all right."

Draco sucks a breath in through his nose. "Okay. All right."

And, at an absolute loss of what else to do, unable to relate to this shell that was once his mother, Draco turns on his heel and leaves the room, leaving her to herself.

.

Draco tries not to hesitate at the doorway to the courtroom after Auror training the next day, but he cannot help himself. Pot- Harry glances back over his shoulder questioningly. Draco stares at him blankly in return, walking forward without a hitch from that point on. Potter looks like he's going to say something, but Draco continues past him and drops elegantly into the chair in the middle of the room. Much to his satisfaction – though not at all to his surprise – the chains that lashed around his wrists last time stay where they are this time.

"State your name and purpose."

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, witness for the defense."

The corner of Amelia Bones' mouth twitches, and Draco can see that she is just as amused at this role-reversal as he himself is. Outwardly, though, she simply nods. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, witness for the defense. Do you swear by your magic to tell the whole truth as you know it pertaining to the matter of one Sirius Orion Black and his alleged victim, Peter Percival Pettigrew?"

Draco inwardly winces at the insanity of Pettigrew's parents before nodding. "I do so swear." He closes his eyes preemptively, knowing that as soon as he finishes speaking his magic is going to glow. He feels the light rush of air surround him, and then it stills and he opens his eyes. Potter is staring at him, an odd, unfamiliar look in his eyes, though he turns to Madam Bones when she speaks.

"Harry James Potter, advocate for the defense, please proceed with questioning."

Potter turns to face him, smiling in a way that is meant to be reassuring, the same familiar set of emerald dress robes swirling around him. Draco is momentarily distracted by the fact that these robes appear to be the exact shade of green as his eyes are, and then he wonders why he even noticed that.

"Mr. Malfoy," Po-Harry begins, winking at Draco. Draco plasters an unconcerned sneer across his face in return. "Were you ever in the presence of one Peter Pettigrew, alias Wormtail?"

Draco nods. "I was."

"During approximately what years?"

"Mostly '97 and '98, I'd say."

"And how, may I ask, do you know that that's who it was?"

"Well, that's what they called him, isn't it? Pettigrew. Or Wormtail."

"And who are 'they'?"

It takes Draco only moments to realize that Potter is playing devil's advocate here. Everything has to be laid clear, or else Draco looks unreliable as a witness.

"The other Death Eaters. The Dark Lord." Draco knows his voice has dropped in volume, but he didn't seem to have a choice in the matter. It wasn't a conscious decision.

Harry – consciously or unconsciously – mimics this.

"And can you tell me why, Draco, was Peter Pettigrew mingling with people like the Death Eaters and Voldemort?"

Draco raises the gaze he didn't notice that he dropped, meeting those increasingly-familiar green eyes. "Because he was one of them. Peter Pettigrew was Marked."

He has only a moment to register the apology in Potter's eyes before Potter asks, "And how do you know this?"

Draco doesn't allow surprise or hurt to cross his face, though he feels both. At the same time, he understands, and he doesn't hold it against Potter. It's perfectly reasonable.

"Because I was Marked, too," Draco says. He wants to whisper the words, but that would be a mark of defeat. Instead he keeps his head up, he holds Potter's gaze, and he says the words with as much force as any others. It's the first time he's said it – admitted it – in so many words. He's said yes, when they asked. He's admitted that much. But he's never said it himself.

He wants to rub the inside of his left wrist in a nervous habit he's been trying to kick – that same spot where the Mark once burned – but he resists the urge. He doesn't drop his gaze as murmurs work their way through the crowd.

"So you would know, then," P- Harry says, to stop the whispers.

Draco nods. "I would know."

"So Pettigrew was alive, then, after Sirius Black allegedly killed him. After his posthumously awarded Order of Merlin. And he was a Death Eater. Both of these line up perfectly with the explanation Sirius Black gave to everyone after his escape from Azkaban. And if Sirius didn't kill Pettigrew, what else didn't he do?" Potter asks the Wizengamot members at large.

Harry turns to face Madam Bones. "No further questions."

She nods. "Due to the unorthodox nature of this trial, and the prosecution's lack of a distinct advocate, I hereby offer questioning up to the jury at large. Does anyone have any questions for Mr. Malfoy pertaining to Peter Pettigrew or Sirius Black?"

Draco's eyes skim the courtroom for the first time. The jury is much smaller than the crowd at the Death Eater Trials. Logical, because this trial is post-mortem.

A witch in the back puts up her hand, and Amelia Bones nods at her.

"Why are you testifying today, Mr. Malfoy?"

Madam Bones frowns. "Is that pertinent?"

The witch nods furiously. "Oh, yes. It puts his testimony in question if I don't know why."

Draco shifts his gaze to meet Potter's eyes. They are pleading with him.

Carefully, Draco stands and faces the witch, smoothing out his robes as he does. "Because if Mr. Black was innocent – and I believe that he was – then I understand him. I understand what it is to spend your whole life trying to prove that you aren't what your last name says you are. I understand what it is to have people judge you before they even know you. I understand what it is to have no say in what they think of you. And if he was innocent – and, again, I believe that he was – then he deserves for people to know that he's better than his name."

The speech is like a mutant amalgamation of what Potter said about Black and Draco's feelings at his own trial, but it seems to work. The witch with the question, at least, seems more than appeased.

"Any further question?" Madam Bones asks. Draco remains standing on a hunch, and it pays off when no one replies. "You may go, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for your time."

He nods, bowing slightly out of ingrained respect for authority. "It was my pleasure, Madam." And, sharply, he turns on his heel, robes billowing out behind him, and he walks out.


	9. Chapter 9

_Previously: "He nods, bowing slightly out of ingrained respect for authority. "It was my pleasure, Madam." And, sharply, he turns on his heel, robes billowing out behind him, and he walks out."_

_._

"Draco!" Potter's voice comes from behind him. "Draco, wait!"

Draco pauses from his position halfway down the hallway. Slowly, he turns. "What is it, Harry?"

Harry grins at him, mostly, Draco thinks, because he finally said Harry without stuttering first. His expression quickly sobers, though.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Draco shakes his head. "I understand, Potter. I'm not so thick that I can't see the logic to it on my own."

"I know that," Pot- Harry says. "But I also know that understanding and accepting are two completely different things."

Draco allows the exhalation of breath, an almost-sigh, to say more than words can. "I know."

He turns around, showing Potter his back. He doesn't want to say anything else, but he knows that Potter won't just leave it at that. It's not in his nature. "It's the first time I've ever admitted it in so many words," he confesses.

Pot- Harry's voice is closer than Draco expects it to be when he speaks. "I'm sorry," he says again.

And Draco shakes his head again in reply. "It's not… I needed to admit it," he says, and he is surprised at himself. That's true, very true, he has no doubt about that, but it's not the sort of thing he'd usually say aloud.

He's a little afraid of that; his impenetrable façade is cracking around Potter. The things he's kept so tightly inside – where they're _safe_, where they _belong_ – are beginning to slip out through the cracks.

And he wonders absently what it is about Potter that destroys Draco's self-control like no one else has ever been able to. Because Potter has always done that – the boy who lived to do impossible things. The control that Draco so carefully cultivates has always shattered around Potter, though it used to be expressed as anger. Malice. Which Draco could handle. Both anger and malice were, if not completely under control, at least manageable.

But this, this… vulnerability is completely uncontrollable. And that scares him.

He turns back around to find Potter much closer than he was only moments ago, closer than even his voice came from. Too close. Draco takes a step backward.

The expression that flickers across Potter's face is halfway in between a smirk and a smile.

"Tomorrow, after work? Lessons."

It takes Draco only half a moment to realize that Potter is talking about lessons on being more reserved. He nods. "Did you have a location in mind?"

Potter- _Harry_ shrugs. "No point in making my certain humiliation public, is there? Grimmauld Place works for me, if that's all right with you?"

"Grimmauld Place?"

"My… house. Sorry. I just… have trouble thinking of it in those terms. It's still… It's still Sirius' house, to me."

Nodding, ignoring the slightly choked note to Po- Harry's voice, Draco says, "All right."

A small smile spreads across Potter's face. "I'll have to key you into the wards, so Apparation would be best, then."

"Of course. I'll just have to stop home for a moment, first, if that's all right?"

Po- Harry's eyebrows furrow. "Why?"

Draco resists the urge to press his lips together and instead just shakes his head slightly. In response, Potter's face takes on a stubborn hue.

"Don't," Draco murmurs softly, heading off whatever protest Po- Harry is about to make.

Po- Harry's face softens, but the stubbornness is still there.

"All right," he says. "I won't ask. But it'd be a lot easier if you'd just take me with you, then we could go straight from your house."

Draco can see the truth in Potter's statement – because Apparating too many times in a short period can dizzy even those who are accustomed to the sensation. He can keep Po- Harry in the foyer while he checks on his mother, he figures. And Potter won't let it alone if he doesn't agree.

"Okay."

.

"I found out something interesting about you yesterday, Draco," Waters says first thing the next day, putting Draco immediately on guard. Potter looks on in obvious interest.

"And what was that?" Draco asks casually in reply.

"You were the only one to fail the trust exercise."

Draco winces internally, his face composed. He had been rather hoping that was never going to come up again. Before he can come up with a response, though, Waters continues. "Which I find interesting, because you trust Harry." Draco's eyebrows furrow in disagreement, but Waters keeps talking. "Oh, perhaps not explicitly. But implicitly you do. You wouldn't have bet on him, otherwise. You don't plan to lose."

His response is careful. "I don't plan to lose. But the fact that Potter is reliably too stubborn to die does not mean that I trust him."

The way Waters smiles makes Draco feel like a fly caught in a spider's web. "Do you know what the definition of 'reliable' is, Draco?"

And Draco knows that Waters has him backed into a verbal corner. He slowly shakes his head.

"Trustworthy."

Po- Harry grins. Draco scowls. And Waters simply smirks, continuing. "You may not trust him consciously. But some part of you does. We just have to bring that part to the surface."

Draco swallows with some trepidation. He has a feeling this isn't going to be fun.

"So that's why," Waters carries on, his smirk growing as he speaks, "we're going to start every day with five minutes of Muggle trust exercises until you, Draco, can trust Harry to catch you."

Draco wants to refuse. He wants to say, _No, I won't. It's a ridiculous, preposterous attempt at forcing people together, and it doesn't actually achieve anything. _

But Draco is trying to be different – _better_ – than who he used to be. He's trying to mend a broken reputation and be the sort of person who can stand up straight, proud of who he is. He's trying to redeem himself. And he respects Waters, because he is skilled and competent, honest and real.

And so he ignores the part of him that is sullen because of his failure, and he ignores the part of him that wants to be too haughty, too proud to stoop so _low_ as a Muggle trust exercise. He shakes the thought, and he simply nods in acquiescence.

He doesn't doubt that Waters noticed the conflict, brief as it was, before his nod.

"Starting today," Waters adds, his voice too cheerful. Draco barely refrains from glaring at him. "And we might as well start out easy. Harry first."

Pot– Harry nods easily. "All right." He turns his back to Draco and, before Draco has even extended his arms, tips back with abandon. Draco doesn't understand it – it truly goes against all self-preservation instincts.

Without even thinking about it, though, Draco reaches out and effortlessly stops Potter's fall. It's not a decision; it's innate. Which, now that Draco really considers it, seems odd. Most of Draco's honed instincts are self-centric, because that's what he was always taught. Reputation first, then family, then self, then everything else. That's how the hierarchy went in the Malfoy family. Because reputation affected the family, and family must always come before the self, but then that was all that mattered. Everything else was insignificant.

_So, why, then, is it instinctual to stop Potter from falling?_ It could, he muses, simply be the fact that there is no cost to himself. That would be a logical answer. But, at the same time, analyzing cost and reward takes time; it isn't instinct. So he doubts this answer, despite the fact that he deeply wishes it were so simple. Because he isn't quite sure he wants to contemplate any deeper. There are, perhaps, things he is better off not knowing about himself.

But then, Draco Malfoy knows the truth of the old adage, 'knowledge is power.' And his desire for power will never truly cease. And it is essential that he know himself, most especially. So he allows himself to wonder about it – if stopping Po- Harry's fall is instinctual, it must relate to one of those three things: reputation, family, self. And perhaps it is so simplistic as to be the first. After all, he's trying to rebuild a reputation from the ashes, and dropping the Savior wouldn't exactly be the best way to go about that. It cannot be the second, obviously. Potter isn't family. But, he wonders, could it possibly be the third? Could it be some twisted sense of self-preservation that causes Draco to save Po- Harry on instinct?

And that's a road Draco isn't certain he wants to traverse. Instead, he simply lifts Pot- Harry back up into a standing position and turns his back to him. He checks that Pot- Harry has his arms out – because, while Potter may be beyond that, Draco hasn't even managed trust when he _does_ know for sure that Potter's ready.

Draco takes a deep breath. Then another. And then he tips himself backwards.

He cannot help but hate the feeling – he feels vulnerable, when he's falling. As though he is in danger.

He tries to bear it; he tries to tell himself that Pot- Harry will catch him.

But he can't. He steps back, catching himself. Pot- Harry sighs.


	10. Chapter 10

_Previously: "He tries to bear it; he tries to tell himself that Pot- Harry will catch him. / But he can't. He steps back, catching himself. Pot- Harry sighs."_

_._

Five minutes. Twelve times. Twelve tries. Twelve failures, as Potter becomes more and more frustrated, Waters becomes more and more disappointed, and Draco himself becomes more and more exasperated. He can't do this.

"Tomorrow," Waters says, his voice flat. Draco simply nods. And, with that, they move on.

"Concealment and disguise. One of the big factors of being an Auror – especially for the two of you, I suspect, given your notoriety. You still do some basics in school, correct? Human Transfiguration?"

Harry's face goes an odd shade at that, and Draco raises a questioning eyebrow, at which Po- Harry sniggers slightly in a somewhat embarrassed way.

"Okay, P- Harry. Explain that reaction."

Pot- Harry's lips twitch. "It's… a long story. Involving Luna and a yellow eyebrow. You probably don't want to know."

Draco's other eyebrow rises to join the first. "Lovegood and a yellow eyebrow. You're probably right about that."

"I want to know!" Waters puts in. He's grinning broadly.

Harry sighs, shaking his head. "Let's just say I'm not particularly good at human Transfiguration, okay?"

Waters allows a grimace. "Normally, that would be very bad. We'd have to work on that. But, as you know, the training for your particular incoming class is… peculiar, to say the least. Far shorter, more intense, _much _more partner oriented. The goal is to get competent Aurors in the least amount of time possible." He pauses for a moment, then continues. "I'm not entirely sure I'm meant to tell you this, but I can't see that not telling you is doing any good… The exams at the end of your year of training will be taken in pairs. The reasoning, I think, is that because they're cutting your training time to a third of what it normally is, and you don't ever really operate alone in the field anyway, it just makes sense." He sighs.

"I think it's ridiculous. I think they're preparing you for complete and utter dependence upon one partner. What if you get separated? What if you – Merlin forbid, but it's possible – lose your partner?" He shakes his head. "I'm not going to train you that way. I'm going to train you so that each of you can function on your own. But disguise… Well, if you get separated, you're either already in disguise or you shouldn't need to be. It isn't a priority, as long as one of you can manage it."

Po- Harry shrugs. "It's called _concealment_ and disguise, isn't it? Can't I just use my Cloak?"

"Cloak?" Waters asks.

"My Invisibility Cloak."

Waters' eyes widen as Draco muses that Potter in possession of an invisibility cloak explains a lot – most notably the floating head that once threw mud at him in Hogsmeade, but other things, as well.

"You have an invisibility cloak? How old is it?" Waters asks – and Draco frowns internally. He should have considered that. If Potter's had the cloak for a while, the charms are probably already wearing off.

Pot- Harry shrugs. "I don't actually know. It was my dad's."

Draco can't help but notice, before he really notices the implication of the words, that Harry's voice shudders slightly on the last word. Then the meaning registers in his mind, and his eyes widen like Waters' did moments before.

Waters, now, is frowning. "And it still works?"

"Oh, yes." The expression on Potter's face is almost… smug.

Waters' eyebrows furrow. "Harry, I'm sorry, but that just isn't possible. It's beyond the capabilities of our charm work."

A small, knowing smile flickers across Pot- Harry's face. "Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?"

"The children's tale?" Draco asks, slightly befuddled by this new direction of the conversation.

Po- Harry nods. "But they aren't just a children's tale. They're quite real. At some point or another, I've possessed them all – though not simultaneously."

Draco doesn't stop the expression of doubt from flickering across his face. Pott- Harry laughs. "Feel free to not believe me. I'm used to it. But I assure you, it's true."

Raising an eyebrow now, in skepticism, Waters says simply, "The Resurrection Stone?"

Po- Harry nods. "Broken, now. And buried somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. But it exists. And it worked." His eyes are lost in some memory of the past.

"And the Elder Wand? Because that's a bit difficult to lose possession of and live."

Harry meets Draco's eyes, a knowing smile on his lips. "Draco's done it."

Waters turns a curious gaze to Draco, who suddenly remembers the story Po- Harry told at his trial. About how Albus Dumbledore was the Master of the Elder Wand, and when Draco disarmed him, it transferred its allegiance to him. About how the Wand didn't care that Draco never _killed_ the Headmaster. About how, though Draco had never _possessed _the Elder Wand, he had been the Master of it. And when he'd allowed Potter to disarm him, it had transferred ownership to Po- Harry.

"So that was true, then?" he can't help but ask.

Po- Harry frowns. "Of course it was true."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

And that single word stops Draco cold. Because he'd deduced – or, _assumed_, apparently – that Potter was spinning tales when he told the Wizengamot stories of Draco Malfoy as a good person who'd been mislead by family ideals and the only life he'd ever known. But if Potter truly _believes_ that… Merlin. That idea is… Wow. It's somehow terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He has always know that Po- Harry has an unusual ability to see the best in people – it's something that Draco is, frankly, somewhat leery of. It could, potentially, cause issues if Po- Harry is seeing the good in whatever criminal they're supposed to be hunting. But even knowing that, he didn't expect… this.

But then, Po- Harry has always had a knack for impossible things, hasn't he? Like seeing a better side of Draco than Draco himself can find.

Waters interrupts Draco's musing. "Okay, fill me in here."

And Po- Harry explains the whole thing again, starting with Draco's role in Dumbledore's death – only P- Harry doesn't explain it that way. He explains how Draco was ordered to kill the Headmaster, only, when the moment came, he couldn't.

He explains how the Elder wand transferred its allegiance to Draco, but Draco never physically possessed it, never wielded it.

He explains how they – the _Golden_ Trio – were captured by Snatchers and brought to Malfoy Manner, and when Draco was given the chance at glory, he didn't take it. He didn't say anything, though they both knew that Draco knew it was him.

And he explains how disarming Draco caused the Elder wand to recognize him – Pot- Harry – as its new Master, which wound up being a key factor in winning the war.

Listening to Po- Harry explain all of this for the second time, knowing that P- Harry actually _believes_ it _in the light he's telling it, _almost scares Draco. P- Harry sees him as a _hero_ – as having helped won the war.

Draco's never been a hero, before.

It's sort of a daunting thought.

The scariest part, though, is the expectation. Draco is well and truly sick of expectations – of people always having their own ideas of who he should be. And expecting him to be a hero is just – or almost – as bad as expecting him to be the villain. He's sick of being what he people expect him to be.

"Don't," he says, softly, before he's even truly decided whether or not to say anything to Potter.

Po- Harry looks at him, questioningly. Draco shakes his head. "Don't put me on a pedestal like that."

P- Harry's brows furrow. "I'm not putting you on a pedestal."

Face calm, Draco says, "Yes, you are. I'm not as… _good_… as you think I am."

Harry's face turns angry. "Just because you don't see it, Draco-"

"Potter, stop! Just… You don't know me." His tone is a bit colder than he meant it to be.

Potter- Harry shakes his head. "Maybe not. But we're more alike than you think."

"And we're less alike than you think. Experience isn't the only thing that shapes a person."

Because that's what Potter doesn't seem to understand. As many similarities as Potter can draw between their experiences, it will never be enough to override innate differences – Draco is and always will be Slytherin through and through. He's a thinker, where Potter is a doer. Potter believes in charging in full speed ahead, whereas Draco believes in taking the time to formulate a plan and consider every possible outcome.

And so it ceases to matter that neither of them had a choice, it ceases to matter that both of them have always had too many expectations to live up to, and it ceases to matter that both of them were forced to play key roles in a war they'd rather had never existed. None of that makes them the same, because they're too intrinsically different.


	11. Chapter 11

_Previously: "And so it ceases to matter that neither of them had a choice, it ceases to matter that both of them have always had too many expectations to live up to, and it ceases to matter that both of them were forced to play key roles in a war they'd rather had never existed. None of that makes them the same, because they're too intrinsically different."_

_._

Draco cannot help the slight trickle of unease as he offers Potter his arm for Side-Along Apparation. His home is finally private again – his own tainted sanctuary – and he's not entirely sure that bringing Potter is the best of ideas. It's only practical, though.

Draco steps away as soon as the familiar sensation stops. Potter hesitates for a moment, regaining his balance, and Draco makes a mental note to expose Potter to as much Apparation as possible in the near future, to eradicate that reflex. There will be times, Draco suspects, that hesitation, even for an instant, could be dangerous.

Striding through the wards, Draco waves his wand, allowing them to part for Potter and seal back up behind him. He stops for a moment on the front steps.

"Listen to me for a moment, Po- Harry. I want you to stay in the foyer. I'll only be gone for a few moments, at most. Got it?"

Pott- Harry frowns, but he nods reluctantly, and Draco finally opens the door.

He steps through, Potter close on his heels, to find a frazzled Wilma waiting for him.

"Oh, Wilma is being so glad that Master is home! Wilma is not knowing what to do, because Master is telling Wilma to stay with the Mistress, only Mistress is not waking up! Mistress is laying on the floor and Mistress is not getting up!"

A weight of sheer, blinding panic settles in his gut.

"Stay, Potter!"

And Draco sprints – he doesn't think he's ever sprinted before in his life – to his mother's room, throwing the door open.

She is sprawled out on the floor like a child's rag doll, left behind when the child's attention shifted to something else. Her limbs are askew, as though she was standing and simply crumpled in place, legs bent beneath her, an arm out wide in each direction.

He drops to his knees beside her.

"Mum?" he whispers, taking in her closed eyes and slack expression. After a moment of no response, he pulls out his wand.

"Ren-" he begins, but and arm on his wand hand stops him from completing the motion.

"Wait," Potter's voice says, soft, but seeming loud in the too-quiet room. "It can be harmful to force consciousness, depending on the reason for the initial loss. Unconsciousness can be a body's way of restarting itself. Healing."

Draco scowls at him for interrupting, but his calm words make sense.

"What, then?" Draco spits, his temper frayed by the situation.

"Here, let me," Potter murmurs, pulling out his own wand. Draco is extremely loath to let Potter cast unknown spells on his mother, but he's even more resistant to the idea of doing nothing at all, and attempting to move her to Saint Mungo's could potentially be damaging.

He scowls again before reluctantly moving to allow Potter a better angle.

Potter waves his wand over her in an arcing pattern, covering a broad area. Draco can't quite make out his words – he's muttering under his breath. After a few moments, a string of glowing blue letters begin streaming from the tip of Potter's wand.

Potter's eyes scan over the letters, apparently making sense of what looks like complete and utter gibberish to Draco.

"Well, it's not good, but it could be far worse. She hasn't been eating. Levels of several key nutrients are in danger zones, and by the looks of it she hasn't been drinking much either, nor sleeping. I… I'd probably suggest moving her to Saint Mungo's for full recovery. This isn't the sort of thing a Nutrient Potion and a Sleeping Draught can fix."

Draco frowns. His panic now settling into a dull guilt, he has realized something.

"Po- Harry? Why in Merlin's name do you know how to _do _that?"

"The diagnostic spell?" Po- Harry grins. "Thought I wanted to be a Healer for a bit. Thought I'd had enough of fighting. Then I realized I'm sort of addicted to adrenalin, so that plan sort of went out the window." He shrugs. "I think some part of me always knew I was due to be an Auror, anyway. 'S what I told Professor McGonagall, when they asked about career plans."

Draco frowns. He recalls telling Professor Snape that he wanted to be a Potions Master. Snape had sneered at him in response, and told him that if he didn't know what he wanted to be, he ought to just say so, rather than pitching a pathetic attempt at flattery.

Needless to say, the meeting hadn't lasted so long.

Rather than say that, though, he curls an arm underneath his mother's knees and picks her up gently.

"Floo?" he asks.

Po- Harry nods, taking the Floo powder from a container by the fireplace in the bedroom. He tosses it on the dying flames and they flare up green.

"Saint Mungo's!" he says quite clearly, having inhaled before he stepped into the fireplace. Draco almost wants to grin at that – clearly Pot- Harry has inhaled smoke before. Instead he adjusts his mum in his arms – Merlin, but she doesn't weigh nearly as much as she should – and steps into the flames, calling out the name of the hospital.

A Healer is right by the flames with a floating table. Draco looks around and finds Potter beside him – Po- Harry nods, and Draco gently sets his mum down on the table. He pats her hand gently and then reluctantly allows the Healer to wheel her away.

Potter – Harry – grins ruefully. "It's amazing how fast these people mobilize when it's me stepping through the flames."

Draco stares at him blankly, and Pot- Harry shrugs. "Well, being the Savior of the Wizarding World was bound to be good for something, eventually. Why don't we sit? Who knows how long they might be."

And he strides off, turning around after several steps, finally realizing that Draco isn't behind him.

"Draco?"

Draco steps forward, closing the unusual gap between them. "What are you playing at, Potter? What do you want?"

Potter frowns, eyebrows furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"What do you _want_?" Draco hisses. "Whatever you're looking for, I assure you, _I don't have it."_

Potter's face looks entirely befuddled. "What are you talking about?"

"This!" Draco says, somehow managing to both yell and whisper at the same time. "All of this. You. And the helping."

Potter raises an eyebrow. "I'm not allowed to _help_ without you questioning my motives?"

"No! You aren't! Because it _doesn't. Make. A. Bit. Of. Sense! _People don't _do_ that, Potter. People don't _help_ their _rival_."

"I'd rather thought we were past that," Potter says, his voice almost cold.

Draco sneers. "Potter, the past will always matter. _Always._"

But Potter is shaking his head. "No. I don't… Actually, that's not true. I _do _believe that. But I don't believe that you can't get past that. You can't _erase_ the past, but you can overcome it."

"People don't… Potter, _no one_ forgives that easily."

His eyes drop to the floor. "I do," he murmurs quietly.

"That isn't _normal!_"

And Potter's gaze snaps up from the floor, his green eyes blazing with fury. "I've never _been_ normal, Draco! I was never _allowed_ to be normal! Not even _before_ I knew I was famous, because with my family, all I would _ever_ and will _ever_ be is the _freak_!"

His eyes are glowing, his nostrils flared, and his fists clenched. The rest of the waiting room has gone oddly silent, and everyone is trying to look like they aren't listening, but in reality they all have their ears tilted toward the pair, trying to catch every word.

"Potter, maybe we ought to move this," Draco mutters.

"It's _Harry_!" P- Harry yells, before stomping out of the room, Draco on his heels.

Po- Harry's agitated gait continues until they reach the end of an oddly vacant hallway. He doesn't turn around to face Draco. His fists are still clenched, and Draco can hear him attempting to regulate his breathing.

After long minutes, P- Harry finally turns around. The fierce light in his eyes has dimmed to their usual brilliant emerald.

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I've forgiven you?" His voice is… raw. Hurt. And it is this – in addition to the fact that Draco clearly has not control at all around Potter, which he already knew – that causes Draco to be unusually honest and frank in his response.

"Because I haven't forgiven myself."

And at that, the last of the fight goes out of Pot- Harry. He takes a step forward.

"Draco, there's nothing… You don't need to feel guilty."

Draco cannot help the slight flare of rage. "Don't pretend to know what I've done!" he snaps.

P- Harry flinches backwards. "We all make mistakes," he says softly.

"But we do not all make mistakes of the same magnitude," Draco counters.

"Desperate people do… _Unforgivable_ things."

Draco meets P- Harry's eyes, wondering if Pot- Harry is trying to imply what it sounds like he is, by his emphasis.

The answer, clear in emerald, is yes. And Draco is astonished at P- Harry's somewhat impressive attempt at subtlety.

"Mr. Malfoy?" A nurse in red robes stands at the end of the hall.

Draco raises a hand, turning toward her and taking a few steps forward.

"Your mother is ready for visitors, sir."

Draco nods. P- Harry thanks the woman as she leads them through the passageways, and Draco follows, numb.


	12. Chapter 12

_Previously: "Your mother is ready for visitors, sir."_

_._

As they traverse the corridors, the nurse informs him that she'd advise his mother staying in the hospital for a few days – to restart her body, she says. They can force sleep and give her nutrient potions for a day or two, to jump start the process, but either gets dangerous if continued for much longer.

Draco simply nods in understanding.

The nurse's tone gets gentler as she explains that she's recommending a full time aide upon release, to monitor intake and sleep. Draco merely waves a dismissive hand. He can handle it.

She purses her lips in disapproval, but doesn't comment.

Draco cannot help the almost imperceptible hesitation outside the door to his mother's hospital room, but he continues quickly despite it, and he doesn't think Po- Harry notices.

The nurse stops just inside the door, and so does Harry. Draco doesn't stop until he reaches the side of her bed – the only bed in the room, he can't help but notice, knowing that's P- Harry's influence at work. He picks up her hand, and her eyes flutter open.

"Draco?"

"It's me, Mum."

Her blue eyes lock onto his grey ones. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice raspy.

"I don't understand, Mum," Draco says, so quiet that only his mother can hear him. "They said you haven't been eating. Or sleeping. Or drinking water." He sucks in a breath. "Why?"

She drops her gaze, unable to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"You said you were okay." Draco cannot keep a slight note of accusation out of his voice.

"I _am_ okay."

"Mum, this––" he gestures to the room at large, dropping her hand "––is a lot of things, but _okay_ is not one of them."

She still cannot meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, Draco."

"Stop apologizing!" His voice is still a whisper, but the whisper is snapped out harsher than he intends it to be. He calms himself. "I don't need an apology, Mum. I need you to tell me the truth."

He watches her hands, twisting together in her lap, as she remains silent. Her silence says as much as any words would.

"I don't want you to lie to me." He pauses for a moment. "I don't need you to lie _for_ me."

Finally, _finally_, she lifts her head, her blue eyes meeting his. Still, she doesn't say anything. Draco sighs. "They want you to stay here for a few days, so that they can keep a close watch on your vitals," he tells her. "And then you can come home." He sucks in a deep breath. "I'm not going to brush this off anymore, Mum. I'm sorry that it took this for me to realize how… urgent, it became."

"I'm sorry, Draco," she whispers. And Draco just smiles sadly.

"I know you are. It's okay." He tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear from where it's fallen in front of her face. "We can pick up the pieces." His voice is soft. "You and I, Mum, we can."

"Can we?" Her voice is pained.

"Yes."

They sit in silence for a moment, Draco's last word ringing around them, until a nurse – a different nurse – comes into the room and clears his throat.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco's gaze snaps to him, but even as he focuses on the nurse, he notices that the room is otherwise empty – P- Harry has vanished.

"Yes?"

The man coughs nervously. "It's only that… Erm, well, visiting hours technically ended an hour ago. We, well… As this is a, er, _special _case, we… made an, um, exception, but, well-"

Draco interrupts him before he can stutter on for hours. "That's quite all right." He smiles charmingly. "I do appreciate it."

He stands, and he squeezes his mum's hand one more time.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he tells her firmly. She nods, reaching a hand up and touching his cheek.

"You're a good boy."

Draco allows the corner of his mouth to turn up in a small smile, letting that be his response, and then he turns and leaves the room.

He is momentarily surprised to find Pot- Harry sitting on a bench outside the door. "P- Harry? What are you doing?"

The man shrugs. "Waiting. I… Well, I figured you didn't really need me intruding."

Draco can feel his eyebrows narrowing. "You didn't have to wait."

P- Harry's eyes widen in surprise. "What else would I have done?"

"Gone home?" Draco says, allowing the obviousness of that statement to seep into his voice.

Harry looks as though this thought had never even occurred to him. "Why?"

"Well, why'd you stay?"

He blinks. "I… I wouldn't have felt right leaving, I suppose." Po- Harry stands, gathering his black coat from beside him on the bench.

As they begin to walk out of the hospital, Draco casts a sidelong glance at Harry beside him. Draco had thought that he was reasonably good at reading people – far better than average, he'd have said – but P- Harry is a mystery to him. Every time Draco thinks he has him figured out, P- Harry goes and does something odd that almost makes is seems like he… _cares._ But that, obviously, is an utterly ridiculous idea.

After a long moment of silence, Draco bites his lip and mentally braces himself.

"Thank you, Potter," he spits out, the words blurring together in his hurry to get them out. He isn't accustomed to thanking people – he doesn't like it, on principle. It means he _owes_ them something, and Draco doesn't like _owing_ people. But Potter used the fame that he hates in order to get Draco's mum her own room, to extend visiting hours for him – because that's obviously what the man meant by "special case."

And emerald eyes look at him in utter surprise for a moment, scanning his face. Whatever he's looking for, he must find it, because Po- Harry beams. "You're welcome, Draco."

When they reach the lobby, P- Harry surveys his face again. "We can wait until next week to start lessons," he offers. "Or this weekend."

But Draco is already shaking his head. "No point in delaying it, is there?"

And P- Harry is staring at him again, as though he can actually read Draco's face – which give Draco pause. He thinks about it, but no, he can tell he isn't that distracted. His face hasn't been betraying his emotions.

Still, P- Harry stares at him searchingly for a moment before nodding, as though he's found whatever he's looking for. Draco frowns – internally, of course – as he ponders this.

P- Harry wears his heart blatantly across his sleeve – or, rather, his face – which Draco had assumed meant that Pot- Harry wasn't particularly talented at _reading_ faces either, as the two generally went hand in hand. Someone who knew enough about expressions to read minute changes was typically talented enough to mask the more overt changes in his own face.

But then, Pott- Harry isn't exactly typical, is he?

Draco is surprised to find that he doesn't hesitate at all to take the arm Harry offers for Apparation.

"Sorry, it's a bit of a walk," P- Harry says. "Normally I'd go straight to the front step, but you aren't keyed into the wards, so obviously that's out, and it's a Muggle neighborhood, mostly."

Draco merely nods in response, measuring his strides a half-step behind P- Harry so that he keeps up while letting Po- Harry show him where they're going.

After a few minutes of silence, Po- Harry says, "You truly care about her, don't you?" Draco flicks his gaze up to see P- Harry looking back at him as he walks.

"Of course I do," Draco responds, not bothering to keep the and-you're-an-idiot-for-needing-to-ask tone out of his voice.

Harry looks thoroughly chastised. "Sorry. I guess… I don't know. I was bit surprised," he says.

Draco feels like he really ought to be hurt by the fact that Potter doesn't think he loves his own mum, but he isn't. Po- Harry seems to have a complete lack of understand of how Pureblood – _proper _Pureblood – families work. And he supposes that, for someone who only ever sees the surface, it could look like they don't genuinely care for each other.

"She's my _mum_, Po- Harry," he says, as though that's explanation enough, and then he figures it probably isn't. "Look, you still care about your family, don't you? Even if you may not _like_ them, even if they're nasty, you still care because they're _family?_"

P- Harry nods.

"Family is family. And unlike yours, mine doesn't happen to think that children are acceptable punching bags. _Of course _I care about them."

And then Draco wonders why he just said all of that. He cannot _stand_ the way his tongue seems to lose complete control around Po- Harry. It's downright _dangerous._

"They didn't- He didn't-" Potter stutters at Draco's words, and Draco rolls his eyes.

"So you've mentioned, Potter."


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: I've had multiple people mention P-Harry was getting overdone, so tell me if this is any better. As a note, Harry in italics means that Draco is catching himself just before thinking Potter._

_HiCKoRi – you had PMs turned off, so I couldn't thank you that way, but I really appreciate how kindly you phrased your criticism. I had an Anon just before you say the same thing in really rude terms, so I'd like to thank you for your tact._

_I'm not particularly fond of this chapter. It feels like a lot of filler, to me. But I don't have time before this week's deadline to rewrite it, so I'm just going to hope that next week's is better. Sorry. _

_._

_Previously: "So you've mentioned, Potter."_

_._

Potter scowls at the smug look on Draco's face before muttering, "It's _Harry._"

"My apologies," Draco says, knowing that his face is entirely unapologetic, and also noting that _Harry_ seems to have realized that this is a smooth way of not apologizing at all, as he looks slightly put out. Draco cannot help the smirk that flits across his face. Still, he does resolve to putting more mental effort into calling Potter Harry, as _Harry _so wants. Not that he's going to give up calling him Potter aloud, of course – it's a surefire way to needle the man, and Draco isn't giving that up. Still, he should remedy the mental stutter so that he himself is sure that it's an intentional 'slip-up.'

And then, suddenly, _Harry_ stops walking. Draco scans the houses in front of them, noting that the numbers skip from 11 to 13. Without even turning to face him, P- _Harryharryharry_ says, "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place."

Even growing up around magic, it's a bit unusual to see a building grow from nowhere. Draco keeps his face unmarred, though. He won't show his surprise- well, no, that isn't exactly the right word, as he'd suspected the occurrence beforehand, but the point remains.

Harry does turn to him, though, when he shrugs and says, "Fidelius Charm. Well, _new_ Fidelius Charm, actually. I don't see the point, with how heavily this place is warded, but, well, after being hidden for so long, the building's sudden reappearance could attract attention."

Draco merely nods in understanding, scanning the building. From the outside, it looks like any other townhouse on the block. He knows better, though.

When he turns back to _Harry_, the man has his eyes closed and is sucking in a deep breath. Draco hadn't consciously made the connection before, but now that he considers it, he muses that, given both are residences have long been in the possession of ancient families, Grimmauld Place and Malfoy Manor probably have wards that are much the same – old magic. The type that defies definition, and is more intuitive and subjective.

Harry appears entirely uncomfortable with the process. His forehead is creased with furrows of concentration and his hands, which were loose only moments ago, have clenched into tight fists. Draco isn't surprised that Harry isn't particularly familiar with ward alteration, given that he'd mentioned the house was his godfather's. It's been in his possession, then, for four years, at the absolute maximum – as that's when Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban, and he obviously can't have died before then. Odds are it's been less, perhaps even quite a bit less, than four years since his death. And in those years, _Harry_ has been a bit busy – not exactly lounging around the house. Probably not much ward alteration going on.

Draco blinks at the sudden hand on his sleeve. He feels a trickle of his magic winding its way up and out at the point of contact. Normally, he'd rein it in, pull it back. Allowing his magic to be siphoned feels… unnatural. It goes against instinct. But if the wards are keyed to magical signature, and odds are that they are, Harry needs a sample of his signature to cause the wards to recognize him.

It is possible, of course, to create a blanket buffer, of sorts. Tamp back the ancient wards, allow any magical signature inside. Draco knows this because he's seen it done, with the Manor. The Dark Lord had muffled layers and layers of old magic in order to allow his Death Eaters to come and go – them, an their captives. But Harry is a famous figure, extremely sought after, and not always by the friendliest of characters, Draco can suppose. He's better off letting the wards hum at full strength and keying in those who he wishes to allow entrance.

Draco doesn't allow himself to be flattered by the fact that Harry wishes to allow him entrance. Just business, he knows.

Beside him, Harry gasps suddenly, opening his eyes. They're glowing with an unusual amount of light – residual magic. He shakes his head. "Merlin, I hate that feeling."

Draco frowns internally. Perhaps the wards are not as similar as he'd initially suspected. Altering the wards at the Manor leaves Draco with a heady buzz for hours afterwards. He feels full to the brim with magic, in touch with branches of spell-work long lost in the centuries. It has an intoxicating effect.

Harry grimaces, still shaking his head. "Feels… tainted."

Not so similar at all, then.

"Have you ever had them checked?" There are those, Draco knows, who specialize in forgotten magics.

Harry frowns. "You can do that?"

Draco nods. "Perhaps they feel tainted because they _are_ tainted."

"Hmm."

And without another word, _Harry _trots up the steps and pushes the door open. He turns around to face Draco. "Well? Coming?" And he vanishes into the house.

Draco nearly smiles, but he doesn't allow it to cross his face. Harry is an interesting being, that's for certain. Draco follows him up the steps.

He finds himself in a narrow hallway, dimly lit – a few old gas lamps and a once-grand chandelier. The wallpaper behind a series of portraits is peeling, but as a sharp contrast the carpet looks new.

Harry shrugs at him sheepishly. "Still working on redecorating a bit. This wasn't exactly a priority."

"And who's this?" comes a sudden, condescending voice from behind him. Draco whirls around, but he catches the upset expression on Harry's face as he does.

The voice, Draco finds, came from a painting, a portrait, framed by moth-eaten curtains. A woman in a black cap with a sallow face stares out at him, her features somewhat familiar in a way Draco can't place.

Draco can tell that even as he's surveying her, she's surveying him, and after a moment, she breaks into a scary smile. "Well, boy, you've clearly gained some taste." She's speaking to Harry. She turns her eyes to Draco, and he can see that they're a shade of blue that he recognizes – his mother's eyes.

"Malfoy, yes?" Draco nods. "Lucius' and Narcissa's, then?" He nods again.

Her lips curve up. "It's about time someone of proper standing entered this house." She sniffs. "You don't know the likes of what I've had to put up with since that shameful son of mine escaped prison."

Draco smiles in what he hopes is a sympathetic way. She beams in return.

"C'mon, Draco. Let's go," Harry mutters from behind him.

The smile withers. "Learn to speak properly, boy!"

Draco doesn't have to turn around to imagine emerald eyes flashing. "You have no right-"

"This is my house and-"

"No, it isn't!"

Draco coughs. "It was very nice to meet you, madam," he murmurs politely. "I'm sure our… paths… will cross again." He smiles at her charmingly.

The woman in the portrait practically flutters. "Oh, I do hope so, darling. Perhaps you can instill in him some proper values, yes?"

Draco dips his head in agreement. "Of course, my lady. Until we meet again."

He turns to leave, following Potter down a small set of stairs at the very end of the long hallway.

They arrive in a room that appears to be the focus of Harry's renovations. It's a kitchen with a small dining area, much brighter than the entranceway. The colors are warmer – shades of red and wood tones that amplify what little natural light there is. A large lamp hangs from the ceiling – clearly lit with magic, as a house as old as this has no Muggle power, unless Harry's already gotten around to putting it in. Draco doubts this, as he'd have to do it himself, or else _Obliviate_ the poor man who he hired, whatever his title, and Draco can't see Harry doing either of those.

Harry goes straight to the sink and washes his hands, wiping them off on a towel before turning to face Draco.

"What was that all about?"

"What?"

"You're going to _'instill' _in me some_ 'proper values'_?"

Draco scowls. "Honestly, Potter, clearly I've been giving you more credit than you deserve."

Harry frowns. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Well, obviously this particular portrait was one you deemed a bit troublesome, judging by your expression when she first spoke. When dealing with a troublesome portrait, I've found the best route is often to humor him or her until you can get out of range."

Now Harry is the one scowling. "Troublesome… is an apt word for Mrs. Black."

Draco easily connects the name with a son who escaped prison. "Walburga Black? Mm. She's my great aunt, then."

Harry laughs in a peculiar way. "I always manage to forget that," he says. Even to Draco, his tone is unreadable.


	14. Chapter 14

AN: I don't know where Harry's monologue came from. Honestly, I don't know where these chapters are going until they're written. I apologize for the continued lack of any plot movement. I have ideas, I promise. They're just… taking a while to implement. Bear with me.

_Previously: "Harry laughs. "I always manage to forget that," he says. Even to Draco, his tone is unreadable."_

_._

There is a brief silence where neither of them seems to know what to say, and then Harry offers, "Tea?"

Draco suppresses a laugh, but he allows an amused smirk to play at the corner of his lips. "All right."

Mostly, he agrees because he can see Harry's discomfort, and he can tell that it would comfort for the man to have something to do with his hands. They're trembling slightly before Draco's response, and that worries him. Tremors could be dangerous. But when Harry turns to the cupboard and pulls out a kettle, his hands are steady. _Interesting_. Draco notes this and then tucks it in the back of his mind for later examination.

He accepts the cup Harry gives him minutes later without a quiet thanks. Taking the other man's lead, he sits at the table, seating himself deliberately directly across from Harry.

After a brief sip, Draco sets the teacup on the table in front of him and steeples his finger tips, looking thoughtfully at the man who was once his enemy. Childish rivalry or not, Draco finds that difficult to completely let go of.

Mentally, he sighs. By now, Draco is used to doing things he would rather not. How hard is it to simply add spending time – time _outside_ of work – with his ex-enemy.

But then, perhaps the fact that he thinks of Harry as an _ex_-enemy says something about his changing state of mind.

"Have you ever heard of Occlumency?" Draco asks suddenly.

Harry startles briefly, and then he examines Draco's face carefully. "Please, for the love of Merlin, tell me you aren't serious."

Draco allows the corner of his mouth to twitch – miniscule. "I can assure you, Potter, I'm quite serious."

Harry scowls. "Honestly, I think you do that deliberately."

Arching an eyebrow elegantly, Draco asks as innocently as possible, "Do _what_, precisely?"

"Call me Potter. I'm not stupid, Draco. Not entirely. I mean, sure, a lot of what people exalt me for was dumb luck, but that doesn't mean I'm not capable of basic observation. You keep yourself tightly controlled. Always. I'd wager that ninety percent of the emotions that cross your face are because you allow them to. And if you keep that iron control over facial expressions, well, I'm sure that doesn't even compare to how measured your words are. If you wanted to – truly wanted to – you'd be able to call me Harry, every time. So what's stopping you?"

And suddenly, Draco finds himself being _examined_ by a pair of emerald eyes that are far more observant than he'd originally guessed.

Harry sighs. "No, Draco. That was not a rhetorical question, nor was it one I'm planning on answering – though I've speculations, of course. I want to hear what _you _have to say." After a moment's pause, he adds, "Also, you look like a mad super villain when you do that." He gestures to Draco's still steepled hands, where Draco has absentmindedly been tapping his fingers together – a quick succession from pinky finger to index finger, repeatedly.

Deliberately, Draco continues the motion for a few moments longer, simply to show that Harry likening him to a mad super villain is not particularly concerning. As he does so, he focuses on Harry's question. _So what's stopping you?_

And Draco has told himself that he continues to call the man Potter aloud because it irks Potter, it gets under his skin. That's a perfectly viable, perfectly believable reason, yet, at Harry's question, Draco cannot help but wonder if there's more to it than that. Oh, that's a part of it, certainly. The infantile part of Draco cannot resist the chance to get under this man's skin. As childish as Draco deems the urge, he finds no sense in eradicating it, because it brings him amusement and, so far, has no detrimental effects.

Unwilling to more deeply examine his own psyche in present company – such a process would surely reveal something Draco didn't explicitly intend to – Draco resorts to answering simply with, "Your reactions are… most amusing."

Unsurprisingly, Harry scowls. "Oh, spare me, Draco."

Raising an eyebrow again, Draco asks, "Spare you _what_, exactly?" It's so highly reminiscent of his earlier question that Draco immediately vows to quit being so consistent. Consistency breeds predictability.

"Spare me the trivial, surface answer, please. That's the easy answer. Now what's the truth?"

Draco purses his lips, wondering how Harry knows. "I've given you my answer," he eventually says, his resolution quite clear in his tone. "Though, I wouldn't mind hearing your theories." He smirks as if to say that he highly doubts Harry's theories will be enough to explain the complexity that is this particular tic of Draco's.

Harry actually chuckles. "All right, then." He smiling enough to unnerve Draco, though of course Draco would never show it. "I think the most likely is that you always maintain some amount of distance, don't you? You don't allow yourself to become attached, oh, no, that would be a _weakness_. _Exploitable._ I mean, sure, there's your attachment to your family, but that's necessary, isn't it? Primitive. Unavoidable. Outside of that, well, sure, you've got acquaintances. Contacts. People who owe you things; people who you know you can go to when you need something. But you don't _care_ about them, you keep it completely _impersonal. _Take Crabbe and Goyle, for example. Perhaps the closest you had to friends when I first met you, and yet, nothing more than hired muscle, if you got down to it. You called them by their last names. You didn't allow them to get close. You didn't allow _yourself_ to get close. Distance is safer. Easier. And that's what you're doing, isn't it? You're holding me at a distance. You don't want to _allow _yourself to get close to me, because that would make me a _weakness_." He laughs bitterly. "Merlin, Draco, do you really think you can hold the whole world at arm's length forever?"

Draco tips his chin up reflexively, defensively. He keeps his face wholly impassive, but his insides are warring over whether to be wildly impressed by Harry's proclamation or offended. He doesn't want to acknowledge the accuracy, but he doesn't allow his mind to deceive itself if at all possible, and so he must. Still, simply because he must acknowledge it mentally, doesn't mean he has to say as much to Harry.

"Don't presume to know me."

And there's the _infuriating_, arrogant smirk again. "You asked."

Draco cannot help the infinitesimal tightening of the skin near his eyebrows, but he resists the urge to scowl. "Your… analysis… sounds impressive, but it's merely conjecture."

"I'll take that to mean I'm correct, then."

Draco suspects this is where an ordinary person might sputter. That would be wholly undignified, however, and so he merely gives Harry a look of utter disdain instead. "If you'd like. Taking it how you see it doesn't make it truth."

"Denying it doesn't make it untrue, either."

To that, Draco finds, he has an astounding lack of appropriate responses. So, as is only suitable, he changes the subject.

"Care to explain your immensely aversive response to the mention of Occlumency?"

Harry makes a face into his tea. "I don't fancy the idea of going down that road again, thanks."

"Again?" Draco finds himself actually curious. Clearly Harry has had an… _unpleasant _experience with Occlumency before, and Draco cannot help but wonder _why_. It's a discipline usually reserved for Pureblood children, learned as a way of mastering outward expression. Parents teach their children to be reserved, to think before they act, by disciplining the mind, and the easiest way to discipline the mind is through Occlumency.

Draco knows that it can also be used to deflect any Legillimens, of course, but he can't exactly see it being the most useful course of study for Harry. He was only close enough for the Dark Lord to enter his thoughts for a few moments, after all, only a few short incidences. Surely the boy would have better spent his time on spell-casting?

"Snape tried to teach me. Fifth year. It was a complete disaster – wound up getting kicked out and told never to come back. _Clear your mind_," he says in an exact mimic of Professor Snape's voice, so much so that it's scary. "As if that's enough instruction for anybody!"

Draco finds himself raising an eyebrow once more. "Clear your mind? That's what he told you?"

Harry nods.

"Trust me, Potter." Draco cannot help but smirk at Harry's scowl. "There's a lot more to Occlumency than simply clearing your mind."


	15. Chapter 15

I'd appreciate it if you'd vote on the poll in my profile about the future of this story! This was originally intended to be eventually Harry/Draco pairing but I've had several people mention that it doesn't seem to be heading that way, and I'm inclined to agree. So I was wondering what you guys wanted – friendship? Romance? Something in between? Drop me a review or vote to let me know, please and thank you!

.

_Previously: "Trust me, Potter." Draco cannot help but smirk at Harry's scowl. "There's a lot more to Occlumency than simply clearing your mind."_

_._

In response, Harry just taps out an unfamiliar rhythm on the table with his fingertips, waiting for Draco to continue.

Draco can't figure out whether to be irritated by this, or mildly impressed. He pushes it aside and simply takes the silence as a sign to speak. "That is, of course, the most _effective_ method of Occlumency, but it's not exactly the most _practical_, particularly for our purposes." He leans forward. "After all, the purpose to you learning Occlumency here is not, in fact, defending your mind. We're training it. Teaching you mental control, _discipline_. That way you can control which expressions cross your face."

He steeples his fingers again, ignoring Harry's voice in his head saying, "_Mad super villain."_

_Shut up, Potter_.

The Potter in Draco's head smirks. Absently, Draco wonders if he should worry about the fact that there is a tiny version of his ex-archenemy in his head. He decides not to – there isn't much he can do about it now, after all. Tiny-Potter seems quite determined to stay.

He realizes suddenly that he's been staring thoughtfully at Harry without saying anything for perhaps longer than is socially acceptable. Harry fidgets, uncomfortable.

Draco ignores the awkwardness and takes a sip of his now-cold tea.

After a moment, Harry shifts his gaze to scrutinize Draco. Unlike Harry, Draco refuses to fidget under the gaze. He meets the green eyes unflinchingly.

Unsurprisingly, it is Harry who looks away first.

"You're proving a point here, aren't you?" he asks. Draco smiles, then he immediately twists it into a smirk.

"I didn't intend to, but you effectively did anyway, didn't you?"

Harry scowls.

"It isn't a weakness to seek to improve yourself."

"No, but it is a weakness that I seek to improve. I mean… Saying that I'll let you teach me this is like saying that I think your way is better, even though I'm not sure it is. I _like_ my emotions. I like _feeling_ things as strongly as I do. It's a _part _of me. I'm not sure who am I without it."

"Potter––" at the dark glare directed at him, Draco changes the label "––Harry, the point isn't to get you not to _feel _things. There's nothing wrong with _emotions_. It's the fact that you display them so easily to random passerby that I take issue with."

"Well, I know that. But I can't help but feel like suppressing what I show of my emotions will make them… matter less, you know?"

Draco fixes Harry with a grey stare. "Potter," he says disdainfully, this time refusing to change his address despite the glare. "I honestly don't think _anything_ could stop you from _feeling._ You're a Gryffindor; it's practically what you _do._"

Potter bites his lip. Draco gives him a pointed look, and he stops, looking sheepish. Barely, Draco suppresses a grin.

He wonders absently if he should be at all afraid of how well they already communicate nonverbally, but decides not to look too closely at a gift fairy's wand. It's helpful, so he's not going to question it.

"So you don't think that ceasing to express my emotions will affect their intensity?"

"No, Potter. I don't think it will."

Harry nods. "All right then. So tell me, Draco. What _does _Occlumency entail, beyond clearing my mind?"

Draco eyes him. "I'm told it's different for everyone. Which, I suppose, only makes sense. After all, our brains all operate very differently. The thing we have in common, though, is that it involves a sort of… mental construct. You build virtual defenses that you mentally keep in place. After a while, you develop the ability to supply the barest amount of attention to supporting those defenses, and allow your mind to focus almost entirely on other things. It eventually becomes as automatic as breathing."

"How… _eventually _are we talking here, exactly?"

"Well, it took me nearly two months, but I was five, at the time. I'm not sure whether it will be easier because you're older, or harder – you might be set in your ways. So I suppose that I don't know."

Harry's eyes dance with amusement as he mock-gasps. "Oh, Merlin! _Draco Malfoy_ just admitted that he _didn't know_ something! Call the papers! Mark your calendars! It's a momentous day!"

Draco scowls. "You're a child, Potter." But his eyes, he knows, are gleaming with amusement.

Harry just shrugs. "So what're yours?"

"Mine?"

"Your defenses. What do yours look like?"

Draco supposes he really should have realized that, but Potter jumps topics like a kangaroo, and he's still adapting to that. "Battlements."

"Like, Hogwarts?"

"Sort of. More… Great Wall of China."

Harry grins. "You would."

"What?"

"Just… It seems like something you would do. Defend your mind with one of the most famous pieces of architecture the world has ever seen."

Draco sniffs haughtily on purpose. "Well, of course. A mind like this should be protected by the best, should it not?"

_That smile._ _Damn that infectious smile._

Draco stills himself, mentally shaking his head. Locking that thought into a dungeon and throwing away the key. He isn't allowed to be friendly with Potter. No. Just… no.

"So, I just… pick something?"

"Essentially. Something that seems _appropriate._ It has to be a defense of some sort, and tangible is always better. Invisible things tend to get tricky. And… something that _means _something to you is a benefit.

Harry closes his eyes, and Draco can tell that he's sorting through memories and images, trying to find something that works.

He thinks for a very, very long time.

"Okay. I think I've got it. Do you want me to tell you?"

Draco smiles – his scary smile, he knows, but he can't help it. "Oh, don't worry. I'll see it soon enough."

Harry's eyes fly open. "Wait, what? No. No! You are _not_ going anywhere _near _my mind!"

"I have to, Potter! It's the only way to see if you're doing anything at all. Don't worry; I'm a terrible Legillimens. I never took to it properly. So I won't see much."

"No!" Suddenly, Harry is standing, gripping the edge of the table in a death grip, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Draco slides his chair out and backs up until his back is safely against the wall.

Draco holds his breath as Harry attempts to regain control of his breathing. He doesn't say a word. He's smart enough to know that – he's had plenty of experience with flash fire anger, after all. It sort of surprises him that Harry would be the sort for that, though. The man usually seems so… laid back.

After a few minutes in which the tension in the room could be sliced with a dull knife, Harry's eyes snap open.

"Sorry," he says, his voice breathy and soft. "Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry."

"Oh, do stop repeating yourself." But Draco's tone isn't as snappish as he intends it to be, and he knows that Harry can tell.

"Sorry." Harry smiles sheepishly. Draco rolls his eyes, and some of the tension diffuses.

"Explanation?"

Harry shakes his head. "Not now, okay? Just… not now."

Draco nods. "Fine. But eventually."

"Sure. Eventually." He sighs.

"At this juncture, I'm not entirely certain how to proceed."

"Stop."

Draco raises an eyebrow questioningly.

"You're using big, stuffy words on purpose. You're putting up shields, pushing me off. It's another of your stupid tactics to not let anyone get close. Stop. I'm fine. It was a minor incident, nothing happened, and I'm perfectly under control now, I promise you. I will attempt to warn you should I feel it could happen again."

Draco nods.

"The gesture is appreciated. However, the fact remains that I really am not sure what to do. I can't teach you if I can't see how you're doing, and I need to be able to get into your head for that. I thought you trusted me. I never understood it, but I thought you did."

"I do, actually. It has nothing to do with you. I just… I really, really don't like people poking around in my memories. Snape… He saw things. Things that I'd rather no one had seen, y'know? And I'm just… not comfortable with- It feels too much like _him_. Voldemort. Because he was in my head _so many times._" Harry shudders. He runs his hands over his face. "I'm sorry," he murmurs softly.

"We'll find a way, Potter. Somehow, we'll work it out. I'll look into it a bit, before our next lesson. See if there's a way to test defenses without Legilimency."

Harry nods gratefully. "Thank you. I… appreciate that."

Without thinking, Draco nods stiffly, his face passive. "Of course, Potter. It's for both of us, not just you."

Harry actually grins at that. "Of course it is, Draco."

Draco stands, not wanting to linger on what Harry means by his tone when he utters those words. "Very well. I'll see you on Monday at work, then?"

Harry looks at him, an expression in his eyes that Draco can't quite catch, and then he nods. "All right. Monday."

Without another word, Draco departs.


	16. Chapter 16

_Previously: "'All right. Monday.' / Without another word, Draco departs."_

.

His fingers lay over top of hers as he stares absently at the wall. His mind may be miles away, but he still feels like he has to be here, physically.

It isn't just a sense of responsibility that draws him to her side, though. When he's at home, he feels utterly _helpless_. He can't do anything at all to help her from the Manor. Not that he's doing anything to help her here, either, but at least this way he doesn't feel like she's all alone. He can't bear to leave her alone.

It's not fair, he thinks. It isn't fair, what all of this has done to her. What losing _Father_ has done to her.

He wants to blame his father for the state of her, and, really, it would be so easy to. His leaving – not that he did it on purpose, of course, but still – was what tore her apart. If Father hadn't… But that's just it, isn't it? What did his father do wrong? Believe in a lunatic?

Perhaps that's a bad way to look at it. After all, that's not how the rest of the world sees it, obviously, or else his father wouldn't be in prison at the moment. And, well, certainly, his father did things that Draco cannot be proud of, things that he shouldn't have done. Heck, Draco himself has done things he knows he shouldn't have done, things he isn't proud of. Their lives became a mess of things that had to be done for survival, and everything else – morals, a conscious – got unfortunately lost in the shuffle.

It isn't like Draco isn't absolutely drowning in guilt for the things he's done – he is. But it isn't worth dwelling on; it never has been. Dwelling on guilt only paralyzes the mind.

That doesn't mean he can ignore what either of them have done, of course. However, he understands _why_, and so he cannot hate his father for it. He cannot hate his father for tearing their family apart because he understands _why_.

Yet, at the same time, he wants to be able to blame someone for the fact that his mother is lying in a hospital bed, and he doesn't know who else to look to.

Caring is terribly complicated. Impractically so.

Clearly he needs sleep. His mental processes are much more disjointed than usual.

He whirls around at the sound of an awkward throat-clearing.

Harry stands there, looking slightly sheepish and stubbornly determined. Draco raises an eyebrow at him in question, though he wants to furrow them in confusion instead.

In response, Harry just gives a half-shrug.

"What, precisely, are you doing here, Potter?"

"I'm not allowed to be concerned?" Harry has this almost-arrogant smirk plastered across his face and Draco frowns in response.

"I believe we've been over this already," he says, his tone dry.

Harry lifts a shoulder, almost flippantly, carelessly. "Didn't resolve much, though, did we?"

Draco allows one side of his mouth to rise, the expression wry. "I suppose not." A moment's pause, then, "Why _do_ you care, Potter? Why about _me_, of all people?"

Harry frowns, his expression blatantly thoughtful. "I think… I think because I see a lot of myself in you."

At this point, Draco isn't entirely certain he could have prevented his face from morphing to confused. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, come now, Draco, surely you've noticed." Draco doesn't like the lofty superiority of his tone, but Harry continues without seeming to notice. "Astonishing parallels can be drawn, from the very beginning. We both spent our childhoods trying to prove ourselves to people who expected perfection and more, didn't we? Both forced to participate in a war, forced to live up to the expectations of everybody around us. Forced to grow up too quickly, never given an option." He laughs bitterly, humorlessly. "We've got freedom now, haven't we? Now we've got options, but we're both so twisted by our pasts that neither of us can stand to live any sort of _normal life_ anymore, can we?"

He looks up from where he's been staring at the floor, meeting Draco's eyes fiercely. "We're very similar, you and I."

"Very different, too." Harry tips his head, conceding the point. Draco surveys his face, trying to puzzle him out. "You could draw similarities between yourself and any random person off the street. So that doesn't really answer my question, then. Why _me_?"

Harry looks him up and down, thoughtful. "Because everyone deserves a second chance. And you… I think you'll do something with one." His lips twist up into a small smile. "I guess… I see something in you that makes me think you could be somebody great, if you wanted to. And I think that maybe you do. Want to, that is."

Draco blinks. _What is he on about?_ But instead of asking, he merely turns back to his mother, lying on the bed. She looks so unusually _small. _He hates it. It's a constant reminder of how she was, quite literally, _wasting away_ in front of him – somehow almost without his notice. He, who prides himself on his talent of observation, couldn't see that his own _mother _had completely fallen apart. Not that he hadn't noticed something was wrong, of course; he did. But he had somehow missed the severity of the issue, almost until it was too late.

_Almost._

"How is she?" Harry asks, his voice soft, respectful. Draco finds himself grateful for that, though he'd never express it.

"Much the same."

Harry expresses a noise of disappointment. "At least she isn't worse," he says after a moment, but a disdainful glance from Draco causes his face to shift immediately toward contrite. Another moment's silence, and then Draco nearly jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He twists easily out from under the grip, but he doesn't miss the look that flicker's across Harry's face – almost… _sad._

"Draco," he says softly, twisting his hands together. "If you need anything, anything at all…" And Draco is sure his thoughts are clear across his face. _I wouldn't ask _you_. _Harry simply shrugs. "I know. The offer stands, regardless."

These are the moments when Draco realises that he truly doesn't understand what goes on in Harry's head, and he probably never will. Somehow, it doesn't matter to Harry that they were the best of enemies. It doesn't matter to him that Draco still harbours obvious animosity toward him. It doesn't even matter that Draco clearly doesn't want his help. Harry _still_ offers, still uses the fame that he hates to get Draco's mother a private room, still comes by just to _check on _her.

By all rights, they – Draco and his mother – shouldn't matter to Harry. Not one bit.

Draco, of course, doesn't _say _any of this. It wouldn't do to let the man know how thoroughly he manages to confound Draco. Instead, he merely nods, turning away from Harry in a blatant dismissal.

"I'll come by tomorrow," Harry says softly. Draco doesn't reply, but the next time he turns around, some minutes later, Harry is gone.

He _does_ come by tomorrow, though.

"Thank you," Harry says, without preamble. Draco turns around calmly, having expected the man to arrive around the same time as the day prior.

"For what?"

"Reminding me that family is family, no matter what." Draco arches an eyebrow in question. He gestures with his head toward the second chair he'd conjured earlier in anticipation. "I went to see them," Harry says. "My relatives. It was… interesting. Worth it, though."

Draco simply hums, allowing Harry to interpret that however he likes.

Unsurprisingly, Harry takes it as a sign to go on. "Dudley… I think he's actually going to be a decent human being. He actually _apologized_ for what he put me through."

"Mmm."

"Aunt Petunia was too busy being proud of him to really notice me, though. And perhaps it was a good thing that Uncle Vernon was away on a business trip this weekend."

Draco is taking in what Harry is saying, but he isn't really paying attention – merely storing the information, not analysing it.

It winds up being another stilted, awkward conversation that leaves Draco, once again, quite baffled at the end of it. After minutes of silence, Harry disappears once more, looking vaguely sad and disappointed for the second time.

Somehow, Draco gets the impression that Harry is actually disappointed in _him_, though for what, Draco cannot fathom. After all, it isn't as though Harry should have high expectations of pleasant conversation with him, or some such ludicrous thing. Draco wonders absently if Harry is looking for a thank you, or at least some sort of recognition that Draco appreciates what he's doing, what he's done. He dismisses the idea almost immediately – Harry is chivalrous to a fault. He isn't doing… _this_… for recognition. He's doing it either because he wants to or because he feels obligated to. Either way, he isn't in it for recognition, public or private.

Draco is becoming immensely frustrated with his inability to figure out Harry's apparent motives for anything.


	17. Chapter 17

Early, and much longer than usual. Don't expect next week's this early, so it may edge closer to two weeks between this update and the next. I wrote a large majority of this chapter forever ago, so I'm sorry if it seems out of place – I tried to fix that.

Bonus points for anybody who catches the _Sherlock_ reference.

.

Draco finds the next two weeks to be immensely frustrating. He feels utterly _stagnant_, as though he's making absolutely no progress in any direction.

His mum comes home from the hospital, yes, and he makes sure she eats and drinks and sleeps with some regularity, yes, but she also stubbornly refuses to fill out like she should be. This worries him immensely, and he really doesn't know how to fix it. That, and he knows that she's only eating and drinking and sleeping because he's telling her to, and that can't go on forever.

He makes absolutely no progress on his investigation into methods of testing Occlumency skills without using Legilimency. None whatsoever.

Harry remains frustratingly elusive, which Draco doesn't understand at all. He's _always_ been able to read people, and the fact that he can't read Harry despite his best efforts, even after close contact with the man for three weeks, is just plain irritating him.

And now they're doing this again. This stupid Muggle trust exercise. The _falling_ thing. He knows they're the only pair still doing it, because Draco _can't_. It goes against everything he's ever been taught to trust someone else so much that he'll let go. No, Draco doesn't do that. Draco looks out for himself, first and foremost, always. Then, if he's got some time and effort left over, then maybe he'll look out for someone else.

Harry can trust Draco – which is a little scary, if Draco is perfectly honest. Harry just closes his eyes and tips backwards, landing securely in Draco's arms every time. And Draco catches him, because he knows better than to drop their _Savior_. He's still trying to prove that he's not a spy or a Dark wizard (And, well, maybe some part of him actually doesn't want Harry to fall, but he doesn't really want to admit that to himself).

But Draco cannot trust Harry to catch him. He just can't. And after the fifteenth time today that Draco has begun to tip and then caught himself, Harry has apparently finally reached the end of his rope.

"Honestly, Draco! This is just plain ridiculous!" He grabs ahold of Draco's shoulders – tightly. Draco tries to squirm away, but Harry's grasp is too tight. He winces at the pressure, sure that any visible indication that Harry is causing Draco pain will make Harry let go, because that's how Harry is. But, apparently, not right now. Harry's hands maintain a death grip on Draco's shoulders, and his green eyes are blazing in a way that sort of terrifies Draco. Draco tries to look away, but Harry won't let him.

"No, look at me," he says – and there's a timbre of power and a dark tinge of anger in Harry's voice that Draco has never heard before. "_Listen_ to me." Draco wants to run away, and he almost gives in to the urge to squeak in fright, but instead he just nods.

"Listen to me, Draco," Harry repeats. "I. AM. NOT. GOING. TO. DROP. YOU. Do you hear me?" Every word has a layer of firm intent ingrained in it. "Because I am _sick_ and _tired_ of you _not trusting me_! The war is _over_! The past is _over!_ And if you can't trust me in some stupid trust exercise where the only actual risk is you falling a total of about a meter, then there's no way in Merlin's name you're going to trust me in the field! Because if you can't trust me here, where _it doesn't matter_, you definitely can't trust me out there where it does! And I don't want a partner who spends all his time looking out for himself because he doesn't believe that I have his back! It doesn't work that way!"

Harry, whose eyes are glowing, sucks in a deep breath and finally lets go of Draco's shoulders, turning around and beginning to walk away, which Draco doesn't much appreciate after practically being attacked.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

Harry whirls around, and Draco is almost afraid of the manic look in his eyes.

"Do you want to know the truth? Because I can tell you this: most people don't want to know. Nobody wants to see their _hero_ as a human being." His voice is low, quiet, and nearly emotionless, but his eyes are just the opposite. "Nobody wants to let me be broken." He shakes his head. "I never asked for this. I never asked to be their hero. I just wanted to be left alone."

His gaze snaps up as he seems to realize that Draco is still there. "Do you want to know the truth?"

Draco meets his eyes and nods. In the last few weeks, Draco has already figured out that Harry is not the flawless hero they paint him as – or, perhaps he's always known that. Either way, he doesn't need the ideal.

Harry takes a deep breath and then says, "It started a long time ago. When Voldemort came to Godric's Hollow that night, he had every intention of creating a Horcrux from my death – splitting his soul so as to be immortal. But, of course, nothing went as planned. My mother chose to die for me when she didn't have to. He told her to stand aside, but she would not, and so he killed her. That's why I survived. She gave her life for me. But when Voldemort tried to kill me, the preparations had already been made, and his soul still split. And when it did, it latched onto the only living thing in the room." Harry lifts his gaze from the floor and looks Draco straight in the eyes as he says, "Me."

Draco keeps his face expressionless, but inside his brain is whirling all over the place. _Harry is a Horcrux?_

But Harry isn't done talking. "That little piece of him lived inside of me for over sixteen years – and so it very thoroughly became a part of me. And at the Battle of Hogwarts, when I finally found out about it, I knew what I had to do. I had to die, so that the Horcrux inside of me would die." Harry seems lost in his memories, and it's almost as if he's forgotten Draco is there. "And I tried to. I gave myself to him, to Voldemort, and I didn't expect to ever come back." He laughs bitterly. "But then, they always do seem to bend the rules for me, don't they?" Sobering, he shakes his head. "I was given a choice. And it was tempting to just choose to go on, to move on and not look back, but I couldn't, because Tom was still alive. And I had to finish him; I couldn't leave that to somebody else."

He looks at Draco and murmurs softly, "Is that crazy? That _that's_ why I chose to come back?"

Draco can only shake his head. "I'm not the one to ask."

A sharp laugh snaps out. "You're such a politician, aren't you, Draco?" His green eyes flash with momentary rage, but he appears to wrestle it under control. "But you still haven't connected it, have you? He was a part of me for so long that now a part of me is missing. Two souls inhabiting the same body – things were bound to be intertwined. And he was older, of course. So he always took care of all of the things that required inhibition. Not entirely, and not well, but enough that I can tell, now."

Draco doesn't like where this train of discussion is going.

"I've been getting better, though," Harry says, unaware of Draco's unease. "I've learned. Anger is just the hardest to control." He sighs. "It's just that anger is so very _explosive_." He pauses for a moment. "It isn't all negative, though. The mixing. I retain knowledge of Parseltongue because of it – not as fluently, and not so naturally, but it's still there."

He grins darkly. "Scary, isn't it?" And Draco becomes aware that, in his shock, he has allowed his face to express his emotions. He quickly rearranges it.

"Atypical," Draco corrects. And Harry laughs.

"Sure. It's atypical that Voldemort is still alive, in a way. Just atypical that the man who tried to kill me for years, happens to live on inside of me. Just atypical, and maybe a bit ironic. '_Neither can live while the other survives._'" Harry laughs darkly again. "Merlin, but she was wrong on that count!"

Draco doesn't like this Harry – bitter, disillusioned Harry. He's used to Harry being infuriatingly positive about everything. He's never seen anyone quite so convinced that everything would work out in the end.

"He isn't still alive." Draco finds the words tumbling out of his mouth before he consciously decides to say them – stupid _Potter_ wreaking havoc on his control again. He just knows that he wants to make the bitterness in Harry's eyes go away – _dammit_. _No. No. _Draco cannot let himself do this. He will _not _let himself be _concerned_ about _Potter_.

_Caring is not an advantage_.

"Not literally. Not wholly. But parts of him…" There is clear anguish in Harry's eyes.

Waters coughs, and Draco internally jumps – though he, of course, suppresses any external reaction. He is pulling his control back, wrapping it tightly around himself. He won't let anyone past it. He won't. He does internally startle, though, because he'd somehow managed to entirely forget that Waters was in the room. He curses his stupid brain for focusing too much on Harry.

"Harry, why the bloody hell are you just letting us know this _now_?" His voice is icy cold and Draco finds himself glad that the equally frigid glare isn't directed at him. "One week, and this trio of ours is supposed to be field ready. That's the one month mark already, where they start giving out cases to trainees. How the bloody_ hell _am I supposed to take you on a case when you're a walking time-bomb?"

A corner of Draco's mind is analysing the Muggle phrase "time-bomb" for potential meanings, but the larger part is focused on Harry's face as he stares guiltily at the ground.

"I'm sorry. I'm working on it."

"Damn right you are!" Waters scowls, rubbing his hands over his face. "God. You two might be genius field agents, but you're both utter wrecks in the personal department." He sighs. "All right then. New strategy for this last week. You––" he points fiercely at Harry "––are going to learn to control that. You––" he swings his finger toward Draco "––are going to figure out how to trust him." He looks at both of them. "_Before_ they hand us a case we can't solve because you two can't interact decently. Got me?"

After a moment's pause, both men nod.


	18. Chapter 18

Previously: Waters says it's time to get stuff done. "After a moment's pause, both men nod."

.

Waters nods as well. "Good." He sighs again. "To start, Harry, you're going to have to tell me– no, tell Draco, actually, your life story. _All _of it."

Harry frowns. "We already did this. They made us do this the first day."

"Yes, well, apparently you left out some _details_." The scathing tone is highly evident. Potter actually goes scarlet, which exasperates Draco, even though he knows that most people can't control their physiological reactions anyway.

But he doesn't duck his chin, like most people would, and he doesn't mumble. "I apologize for that. I… didn't think it was going to become relevant."

"You didn't think it would be _relevant_?" Waters' voice is low – subtilely deadly. Draco is grateful it isn't directed at him. Even Harry seems to notice, because he swallows. "You didn't think it would be _relevant_ that you have the potential to lose control at any moment? You didn't think it _relevant _that your _soul_ is intertwined with the soul of Voldemort?"

"I thought I had it under control." Harry's voice is even, which Draco finds himself almost impressed by.

"Let's get something straight," Waters says, and his tone brooks no argument. "You may be _Harry Potter_, the _savior_ of the Wizarding World, but when you're here, you are my trainee. If there's something, _anything_ that could possibly affect your training, I need to know. I don't give a _damn_ whether or not you've been told to show no weakness, to deal with it yourself, to _handle _it. I don't want you to handle it. I want you to let me know, so we can _fix_ it, instead of just working around it. Do you understand me?"

By the end of it, he is so close to Harry as to be considered _in his personal space_. Harry waits a beat, and then calmly takes a step backward. For the second time today, Draco is _almost_ impressed. "I understand, sir," Harry says.

Waters scowls. "And don't _sir_ me, please."

"Yes, si- Sorry." He ducks his head. "Habit."

Nodding, Waters says, "In conflict, defer. First thing someone with a childhood like yours learns. Don't worry, we'll change that too, in time."

Harry nods in reply.

"Now––" Waters' voice is lighter, now: playful, but still stern "––is there anything else I need to know?"

Harry contemplates the question very seriously. "Are you asking me if I have other weaknesses?"

Waters just grins.

"Well, the answer has to be yes, then, doesn't it? No one has only one weakness."

A slow smile spreads across Waters' face. "I knew I liked you. Yes, you're absolutely right. Let's just start with the _relevant_ weaknesses, then, shall we?"

Harry grins a bit. "Yes, all right then." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "I care. Too much. Too easily. I'm too easy to manipulate, and I know that I let my emotions decide my actions more often than I should. I'm a bleeding heart – though that's not exclusively a weakness, but then again, is anything?" He looks thoughtful again. "I act before I think at times. I rush into dangerous situations headlong because all I think about is saving people, taking down the bad guy." He shrugs sheepishly. "I'm a Gryffindor, I guess is what I'm saying."

Waters is analysing him thoughtfully. "You're clever, Harry. Nothing is exclusively a weakness, but most anything _can_ be, if you know how to use it. And all of those could be – only, I rather think your partner is going to temper a lot of them." He looks between the two of them, and Draco maintains his pose under the scrutiny, resisting the urge to either straighten up or curl into himself. "Whoever paired the two of you is a genius, or mad. Or both. Because you will fight it tooth and nail, but if you ever manage to truly function together on a personal level, you two will play off each other so perfectly."

Harry smiles, but Draco just arches a slim eyebrow. Waters grins cheekily in response, and Draco allows a small scowl, which just makes Waters smirk.

"Your turn," he says.

"You cannot be serious."

"What?" Harry, as usual, missed the subtle interplay and so wound up conversationally lost.

"Waters expects me to bare my soul to you in return," Draco says flatly. "Which isn't happening."

"Don't be obstinate, Draco."

"Don't be foolish, then. Weaknesses are to be remedied, or, if that fails, hidden. Not exposed, and _definitely _not exposed to someone I don't _trust_."

"That's the bloody point!"

"Regardless, it isn't going to happen."

"You're just being stubborn. It's not that hard."

Draco scoffs. "You don't understand what it is to fight a lifetime of training."

"But I know what it is to do something outside your nature. You are limited only by your own mind, Draco, and I rather thought you were mentally strong enough not to let that hold you back."

"Don't-"

Draco stops speaking abruptly when Harry places a hand on his face and physically turns his head to force their eyes to meet. "Can I say something?" he asks, dropping his hand.

Draco nods, almost hesitantly.

"I'm not going to abuse what you tell me, Draco. I'm not going to _use_ it, because I _don't_ want to _hurt _you. Please, believe that. If you don't trust me on anything else, trust me on this. _I don't want to hurt you_."

Draco looks at his burning emerald eyes. "It doesn't make sense. You spent years wanting to hurt me. You tried to _kill_ me. And now you claim that everything is different, but nothing's really changed, circumstantially, so it doesn't _make sense._"

At the mention of the incident in the bathroom, Harry flinches and can no longer meet Draco's eyes.

"I never meant to kill you. I didn't know."

"That curse is designed to kill. Painfully."

"I didn't know that! I swear to you, I didn't know that! I just… I found it. In a book. And I just… I was stupid, but I didn't know what else to do because you were trying to use the Cruciatus Curse on me!"

Waters is looking between the two of them rapidly. "Someone want to tell me what the hell you two are on about?"

"An… incident," Draco says immediately, taking control of the telling so that he can control the flow of information. "In our sixth year. Potter came upon me in a moment of… vulnerability. Hexes were thrown. Dangerous hexes. I tried to _Crucio_ him; he used Sectumsempra on me. I almost died; Professor Snape saved my life. That's all."

"That's not all," Waters says immediately. "That's what happened; now tell me _why_."

"My control… left something to be desired, at the time. I've since remedied that. I will not allow my emotions to get the better of me again, don't worry."

"And you, Harry? Why?"

Harry grimaces. "I didn't know what the spell did. I didn't mean to… well, I meant to… I don't know. I guess that my intent was to cause pain, and that… It scared me. What I did, it _terrified_ me. I haven't… I don't use spells like that, anymore."

Suddenly, Waters smiles. "Damn, someone up top likes me. You two are brilliant."

"What?" Harry asks. But Draco feels a small smile growing.

"You both _learned _from it. Without any prompting, you found out your error and fixed it. It's _brilliant_."

"It's common sense. We'd have to be fools to make the same mistakes twice simply because we didn't bother to find the mistake," Draco points out.

"You'd be surprised how long it takes some people to learn that one," Waters says dryly.

"I don't think I want to know," Draco murmurs.

Waters grins. "No, probably not."

Silence falls, and Waters doesn't remove his gaze from Draco's face.

After a long moment, Draco speaks. "It isn't happening."

"Bloody hell, Draco! Stop being contrary! I'll even bargain with you. You don't have to give me a monologue spilling your guts all at once. Just one. For today, just one. One weakness that is relevant to this partnership, to this job. And one tomorrow, and one the next day, until you're done."

Draco eyes him. "One?"

"One."

He shifts his gaze to Harry, weighing his options. Waters is not going to let it go. There has to be something, _anything_ that is near-impossible to use against him in any way. He scans Harry's face, analysing all the intent in the emerald eyes that are already somewhat familiar to Draco. Hope, anticipation, pleading, and a small bit of trepidation are all there, but mostly hope.

Draco sighs. When he speaks, it's slowly, every word perfectly measured. "I… might trust my instincts a little too much, but that's because they're right 99 percent of the time."

A grin spreads immediately across Harry's face, enormous and pleased. Waters' face in more calculating – pleased, but not excessively so. He knows what Draco's chosen, why he's chosen it. That he chose the weakness that was the most difficult to turn against him. He isn't pleased about that, but he's pleased that Draco gave him anything at all.

Draco feels a bit like he's working a balancing act.


	19. Chapter 19

To the Anon who asked about action – I'm getting there. I hope. It's slow going, but I'm getting there.

.

_Previously: Draco feels a bit like he's working a balancing act._

.

Looking between them, Waters suddenly says, "I'm really not sure whether you two are purposely making my life difficult, or if you just happen to come by the ability naturally. You've a particular knack for it, though, I have to say. A week," he mutters to himself. "A bloody week." He sighs. "Look. Anger management in a week is never easy, and what that means is instead of solving the root problem and teaching proper control, we're going to teach you short term how to stuff it down – long term consequences are detrimental, but it will have to do for now. All right?"

Harry nods.

Waters sighs again. "Ever heard of Occlumency?"

Harry's face goes completely blank. After a moment, he starts laughing hysterically. Waters raises an eyebrow and then turns to Draco for an explanation.

"I'm assuming this is one of those, "If I don't laugh, I'll cry," moments," he says dryly. Harry, when he finally stops laughing, nods.

"I'm hoping this is some sort of cosmic joke at my expense, or something, I guess."

"And why, precisely, would Occlumency be a cosmic joke?"

"Oh, it's only that I've been asked that exact question before. Draco can tell you how… optimistic, shall we say, that my response was."

Draco grimaces slightly. "His reaction was entirely aversive. Extremely so."

Waters holds up a hand. "Wait, wait. Hold on. _You_––" he gestures to Draco "––tried to teach _him––_" he gestures to Harry "––Occlumency? _Why_?"

"Draco," Harry says immediately, and Draco curses himself for losing control of the flow of information by being too slow to react, "is trying to teach me to be more _Slytherin_. It frustrates him that I wear my emotions so blatantly, and he is trying to change that."

Waters hums. "And how is that going for you, Draco?"

Draco presses his lips tightly together before answering, "Not well. The first lesson wound up with us at a standstill because Potter won't let me in his head to test his shields, and I couldn't see an alternative way to proceed without research. After a fair amount of research, I've made little progress. Occlumency shields cannot be tested any other way."

Waters looks between the two of them. "_He_ won't let _you_ into his head?" He sighs. "And I'd thought the mistrust issues only went one way."

"I do trust him!" Harry protests. "I do, honest. It's just… I don't want _anyone_ in my head. Not ever again."

"_Again_?"

Harry nods. "Well, Voldemort had access to my head through the Horcrux. But that's, honestly, not the part that bothered me the most. Headmaster Dumbledore wanted me to learn Occlumency in my fifth year, to keep Tom out of my head– but this was the year he was avoiding me because he thought it would be productive that way. So he had Professor Snape attempt to teach me. Needless to say, animosity – or, well, outright hatred – is not exactly the best atmosphere for learning to shield my mind. I learned nothing. The lessons simply gave Snape a reason to invade my mind, over and over and over again. I really have absolutely no desire to go through that again."

"Even if you truly believe Draco is trying to help?"

Harry looks pensive for a moment. "I do believe that. It isn't about intentions. I just… the _idea_ alone…" He shudders. "It makes my skin crawl. I swear, Draco, it isn't about you personally."

"I'm not offended," Draco remarks. "Quite honestly, I think I'd be almost equally disturbed by the thought of _you_ in _my_ head."

And the light that ignites in Waters' eyes immediately has Draco regretting his words. "No," he says immediately. "No, and don't you dare even consider it, because it is not going to happen. Period. And nothing you say can weasel me into it this time, so don't even try, because it isn't going to work."

Harry sighs. "Someone want to catch me up? And would you two, y'know, consider speaking _aloud_ in the future?"

Waters grins. "I think Draco is a genius."

"Oh, shut up. I wasn't legitimately suggesting anything, as you are well aware. And it _isn't going to happen_, so just drop it now."

"No, I think I _like_ this idea. I _really_ like this idea."

"There's one problem – you require my cooperation. And I'm telling you right now, you aren't getting it."

Waters raises an eyebrow. "Confident, are you?"

"Very."

Waters examines his face briefly before nodding. "For good reason, I assume. Won't you at least _consider _it? You want him to learn Occlumency at least as much as I do."

"Not at any cost," Draco hisses. "I do not need an _amateur_ poking around in my head."

And suddenly Harry catches on to the conversation. "You want _me_ to use Legilimency on _Draco_?"

"See, even Potter can tell it's ludicrous."

"I didn't say that."

Draco turns to Harry. "You think it's a good idea?"

"I didn't say that either. I don't know enough about Legilimency to make a judgement, I don't think. What damage can an amateur Legilimens do? What does learning Legilimency involve?"

"An amateur Legilimens can't do any damage – Draco is just being paranoid. And it's a spell, just like any other. It involves a singular amount of concentration, true, and it involves the person it's being cast on more than the average spell, true, but it's learned just the same as anything else. The difference is, you get better over time and with use, more so than you simply improve with your ability to cast an ordinary spell."

"Then I don't see why not."

"Because I don't want you in my head anymore than you want me in yours; that's why not!"

"Come on, now, lads. Make a deal, here. A trade, if you will. Draco, you let Harry Legilimise you in return for the ability to Legilimise him to test his shields. It seems a fair trade to me."

"More than fair, actually. He's bargaining for the ability to _repeatedly _use Legilimency on me – I'm only asking for _once_."

Draco looks at Harry's hopeful eyes and Waters' serious ones, and he shakes his head. "I haven't dropped my Occlumency shields in twelve years – not since I learned to keep them up. I cannot take them down now, not for this. Now matter how much I know that Harry has to learn Occlumency, I am not that selfless."

Waters sighs. "What if I said please?" Draco shakes his head mutely. "Mm, that's what I thought. You would never make it that easy." He sighs again. "Because why would this be easy? Of course not. It's as though it's not already hard enough to get a recluse to trust and teach anger management from scratch in a week; no, we have to go and make it more difficult by being bloody stubborn, don't we? Why would we ever do anything else?"

"You know, attempts to guilt trip me are not likely to work."

"I was attempting no such thing," Waters say, his voice too innocent to be truthful.

"Mm, of course you weren't," Draco drawls.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, you know."

"And clichés the lowest form of literature."

"I'd disagree, but I suspect you'd counter by disagreeing with my original statement."

"I would."

"Not worth it, then."

"No, probably not."

"So, what other options do we have besides Occlumency?" Harry interrupts, to stop the strange conversation that's flowing past him.

Waters looks contemplative. "Screw with your head?"

Harry, unsurprisingly, frowns at this suggestion. "What?"

"I don't know what options we have besides to make you as furious as possible as often as possible until you learn control." He smirks. "Fun for us. Not so fun for you, perhaps."

Harry's eyebrows furrow. "I… that's the _only_ option?"

Shrugging, Waters says, "Only one I can think of at the moment."

"And what about Draco, then? What are your plans for him?"

Waters smiles dangerously. "Oh, don't worry. He's not going to enjoy my solution for him, either."

Draco raises his eyebrows. "And why am I getting dragged into this, exactly?"

"Well, if you would just let Harry in your head, I wouldn't have to resort to either of these… crude solutions. But, as it stands, I can't come up with anything better. If you have any ideas, I am, of course, open to suggestion, but at this point progress is sort of our main priority."

"Am I allowed to know what your plan for me entails, exactly?"

"Well, we need to get your to trust him, yes? And, as far as I can see, the only way to get you to believe that he's there to save you is… for him to actually _save_ you. So I'm going to levitate you – outside, of course, because as high as this ceiling is, I'd prefer higher so that we don't have to bet on Harry's reaction time, Seeker or not – and then I'm going to drop you and Harry's going to stop you from hitting the ground. Until you trust him."

"Are you _allowed_ to do that?" Harry asks.

"Probably not. But I'm not letting you two into the field until you're ready, and I've not yet failed to have a team field-ready in a month. I'm not failing now."


	20. Chapter 20

You guys are freaking fantastic. Over 100 reviews! Thanks so much to every single person who made that possible!

Also – I had a reviewer ask about the beginning of Chapter 18, and why they were speaking about Voldemort's soul inside of Harry in present tense. It was a good question because I'm not sure I explained it as well as I could have in chapter 17, so I've gotten this person's permission to paste my answer here, in case anyone else is wondering the same thing.

_As for the part about Voldemort's soul – the way it goes in my head is a bit like this. Harry had a piece of soul inside of him for a long time, right? – almost 17 years. And in that time, things got a little… well, mixed up. Their souls became intertwined, to the point where you could not properly tell where one ended and the other began. So when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse on Harry and killed that piece of his own soul – well, when Harry chose to come back without that piece, it wasn't so simple. Pieces were still intertwined. So he has… fragments, sort of, left of Voldemort's soul, still inside of him. Most of it is gone, but shards remain. This is why, as I stated in a previous chapter ([17], I believe), Harry can still speak a bit of Parseltongue. _

Sorry for the long AN – I wouldn't if I didn't think it a legitimate concern.

.

Previously: "I'm not letting you two into the field until you're ready, and I've not yet failed to have a team field-ready in a month. I'm not failing now."

.

"So what you're saying is that you're mad," Harry says flatly.

"Probably. But it's an effective mad, so I don't worry too much. If I ever tip into the realms of ineffective mad, do say so. I need to know to reverse it."

"Absolutely barmy."

"Yup." Waters just grins. "And happier that way. Who wants to deal with pesky things like sanity?"

Draco is mildly surprised by this point of view, though of course he doesn't show it. He's always prized his mind, though. He puts an extreme emphasis on mental control and values his own well-disciplined thoughts. To embrace the mental chaos that is insanity simply because it is deemed 'effective' is completely unfathomable to him.

Tugging the conversation back on track, Draco asks, "So what you've expressed is that my options are allow Potter – who has never used Legilimency in his life, I might add – to invade my thoughts, or let you _drop_ me from as high as you possibly can Levitate me, just so that Potter can catch me." He catches sight of Harry's scowl and, smirking, corrects, "Harry, then. So _Harry_ can catch me. Repeatedly."

Waters looks momentarily thoughtful, and then he nods. "Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

"Though, if I choose to be dropped, I also get to piss of Potter––" he sighs at Harry's look "––Harry repeatedly?"

"True," Waters acknowledges.

"Well, that is a factor."

Draco deliberates for a few moments. He expects this is what people mean by the metaphor, "Stuck between a rock and a hard place." Neither option seems remotely pleasing. He's not afraid of heights by any means – he did play Quidditch all through school, and he's always felt natural on a broomstick – but the best part of flying has always been that he's completely in _control_. A broomstick reacts to his touch so well that, by this point, it's almost intuitive. He feels entirely in control at every moment.

Falling – _free-_falling – is completely the opposite. Falling is so far outside his control that the very idea is entirely repulsive. Draco hates things that are outside his control. He keeps careful control of his thoughts, of the flow of conversation, of what people know, of his emotions, of his outward expressions – of everything. If it can be controlled, Draco feels the need to be in control of it. It could be a weakness, to the extreme he takes it to, but Draco doesn't see it that way. Keeping control he sees as a strength, because it means he's always aware and can't be taken by surprise. Nothing is left up to chance.

On the other hand, allowing Harry inside his head is completely unacceptable. Draco doesn't ever allow anyone into his thoughts. It's far too personal, too private. It would feel like a violation of his carefully maintained privacy. Not that Harry hasn't already managed to invade his privacy – after all, Draco never would have told him about his mother, but he never had that choice because Harry was too stubborn to listen. But that is entirely different from having him _in his thoughts_. The idea makes Draco feel _vulnerable_. He despises that particular feeling.

Vulnerability, or loss of control. Both of these are absolutely distasteful to Draco. There is no acceptable option.

"I don't suppose you'd accept the answer of neither, then?" he asks.

Waters laughs. "Nice try, but no. Not an option."

Draco grimaces slightly. "I didn't think so." He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. "All right. Option two it is."

"You prefer to be dropped?"

Reluctantly, Draco nods. Waters looks thoughtful. Draco can tell he's reading a lot more into that than Draco would like. The downside, perhaps, to a competent instructor. He sees things Draco would rather he didn't see.

After a few moments, though, Waters' lips turn up into a smirk. "That's interesting. All right then." Abruptly, as is his way, he turns and leaves the room. Draco closes his eyes briefly, sighs, and follows. He can tell Harry is grinning behind him.

"Shut up, Potter." Draco doesn't turn around to speak the words.

"I haven't said anything!"

"Relevance?"

"Yes!"

"Mmmm. I'm inclined to disagree."

"Oh, really?"

Draco flicks a brief glance to the side, where Harry has jogged a few steps to walk next to him. "Yes. You don't have to say a word to communicate. I find your communication irksome in nature. Therefore, I requested you cease communicating, but in the words our society has so eloquently chosen to express the sentiment."

Harry's face narrows in contemplation. "Hm. Point, I suppose."

A small smirk flickers across Draco's face. "No counter?"

Harry shrugs. "I'm no good at anything like this. I can't… I mean… You spin words out of the air like they're just sitting there, waiting for you. And I can't do that."

Draco frowns, his eyebrows narrowing.

"Liar," he says, his tone acidic.

Surprise flashes across Harry's face. "What?"

"That's all lies. I watched you spin words out of the air – at my trial."

"That's different, though. That… I had time to think about that. Plenty. And I went over it in my head, over and over and over agin. I thought it and rethought it and rethought it again. I can't do it on the spot, like you can."

Draco blinks. Not that he'd even consciously considered it, really, but he supposes that if he'd had to offer an opinion, he would have said that Harry's appearance at his trial was more spur-of-the-moment. The sort of thing that, if he'd thought about it, he wouldn't have gone through with it, but in the moment seemed like a good idea.

The idea that it was… premeditated, deeply considered, and that Harry _still _decided to… Well, it just makes him even more impossible to understand.

He doesn't say any of this, though. What he says is, "Well, I guess we know which one of us is reasoning with the suspects, then."

Harry laughs – genuinely, which startles Draco slightly. He'd meant it as a serious comment.

Waters is waiting impatiently at the end of the hallway. "The hell are you two doing, exactly?"

Draco shrugs insolently. "Is casual conversation not allowed?"

Waters' eyes narrow suspiciously. "It is, but you don't _do_ casual conversation, Draco. Everything has ulterior motives."

"Just because I'm multitasking, doesn't mean I can't be casual," Draco counters.

Waters is looking down at him, examining his face carefully. Draco isn't used to being at a height disadvantage, and he doesn't find the sensation pleasant all all. Still, Waters seems to find whatever he's looking for, because he nods. "All right then. Keep up," he says shortly, and then he turns and stalks off. Draco suspects that if he'd been wearing robes, his quick pace would have managed a billow worthy of the late Professor Snape, but he keeps that observation to himself, as he can assume that it wouldn't be appreciated.

They take an elevator and then several hallways and then another elevator and then another couple hallways, until even Draco, who grew up prowling the Ministry at his father's heels, is completely lost. Then they push through a small, unassuming door.

A vast field spreads out before them. Green grass and blue sky and purple blossoms and it all seems entirely cliché to Draco, but he doesn't mention that any more than he mentioned the billow. Instead he just turns full circle, inspecting, but he stops dead at a half turn. Where the door should be, where the wall should be, where the _Ministry _should be, there is absolutely nothing. Nothing but more field and more sky and more purple blossoms.

"Where are we?" he asks, purposely keeping the awe out of his voice.

"Does it matter?"

"Not particularly, but one does wonder, you know."

Waters hums. "Yes, I suppose. The answer is nowhere, I guess. Or everywhere. The Unspeakables are a rather imprecise bunch.

"Unspeakables? This is a part of the Department of Mysteries?" Harry asks.

"Not exactly. It's not located down there. But it was created by them. I think the goal was to create an independent plane of existence. I'm pretty sure they just made a gate to a field somewhere on _our_ plane, actually, but don't tell them that. They're quite proud of this place, and the only reason I get access is because I know somebody."

"How do we get _off_ this piece of land, exactly?"

"Fantastic!"

Harry frowns. "What?"

"He's brilliant, you know," Waters tells him. "Absolutely brilliant. First question you should always ask yourself went entering a new space: where are the exits?"

Draco just nods. That's simple stuff. You don't leave yourself without an escape route – or two or three, if possible.

"Oddly, you can Apparate out. Can't Apparate in, for some as-of-yet inexplicable reason, but you can Apparate out."

Draco nods, content with that answer. "Portkey?" he asks, finding that he's curious despite himself.

"Out but not in, same way."

"Interesting."

And then, just like that, Draco is floating.


	21. Chapter 21

This chapter is dedicated to CatchingCraziness, who pointed out that Draco could just Apparate to the ground :D

_Previously: And then, just like that, Draco is floating. _

_._

"I find I concur with Potter's earlier assessment of your sanity," Draco says calmly, despite being twenty feet in the air. He refuses to shout the words, so it's a good thing the field is quiet – almost unnaturally so, now that he notices it.

"Draco, do you know the meaning of the word concise?" Waters asks just as calmly, as though the conversation were taking place under perfectly normal circumstances.

"Of course."

"Do you _use _it?"

"No. Why say it in two words when you can dumbfound people with it in eleven? It's an easy way to suss out the idiots."

Waters actually chuckles at that. "All right," he says. "I'll give you that one. But you have to admit, it's perhaps not the most efficient method of speech."

"Could you have this conversation, you know, on the _ground_?" Harry puts in. Draco smirks.

"Unnerved, Potter?"

"Well, yes! Why aren't _you_?"

"Because I have been trained to keep my composure no matter the context – and this is not the situation most trying on that ability, by any means." He crosses his arms over his chest as Waters gestures with his wand and Draco rises gently higher.

"You're fun," Waters says, grinning.

Draco raises an eyebrow – the motion barely visible to the two on the ground as he continues rising. The unspoken meaning, though, is quite clear. _And what about this is _fun_, exactly?_

His grin grows. "I don't even have to teach you things. You already know them. All I have to teach you is how to loosen up, and you'll be fully ready."

"And that's _fun_?" Harry asks.

Waters shrugs. "Sure, everyone likes a challenge once in a while, but you know teachers – they favor the clever ones, the naturals. Draco is like that arrogant sod of a student who comes in thinking he knows everything. You've got to hate him on principle for being smarter than you, but at the same time all the teachers harbor a sort of admiration – because teachers, most of all, appreciate cleverness."

"You're saying his arrogance is good?"

Waters laughs. "No. The _cleverness_ is good. The arrogance is annoying as hell."

Draco watches as Harry smiles good-naturedly, but his eyes flick up to Draco for the fifth time since Draco's last spoken. It's obvious how uncomfortable with the fact that Draco is up in the air – another one of those things that Draco figures he'll never understand about Harry. Because it's quite evident that Harry isn't uncomfortable for _himself_, he's uncomfortable for _Draco_. And that's just downright _strange_.

Waters notes the movement as well.

"I was going to spring the dropping as much as I did the levitating, but I didn't figure we should tax Harry's reflexes so much so soon. I'd have liked to see if that, at least, could get a rise out of you––" he grins up at Draco "––but I'd also like you to survive training. Imagine what it would do to my record if one of you _died_ before you even made it to fieldwork!"

"I rather don't think Potter appreciates your humor," Draco says dryly. It's the expression that gives it away – a troubled frown crossed the ever-increasingly-familiar face at Waters' words. Harry shoots a brief glare up at Draco. "Just because you weren't going to mention it," Draco replies, and Harry just scowls – a scowl Draco can barely make out, from the distance.

"Ready?" Waters questions.

"Always," Draco replies promptly.

"I meant Harry, actually, but thank you, Draco, for that input," Waters drawls. "Harry, ready?"

Harry pulls his wand out of his back pocket – which makes Waters scowl and mutter something that Draco can't quite hear but suspects has something to do with getting a holster – and holds it tightly at the ready. Waters sighs and murmurs a quiet reprimand, at which Harry relaxes his arm, loosens his grip, and drops his hand so that it's just above his side. He frowns while doing it, but Waters tells him something else, nodding, and then turns back to Draco.

"3. 2. 1." He doesn't go for the dramatic, like Draco had expected him to. The words are calm, the tone even. The countdown could be any other words – but it isn't, obviously.

After the one, he flicks his wand in a minute movement, and it's as though the earth is plummeting out from under Draco, or, rather, like the air is no longer holding him in place.

Seconds later, Draco is no longer falling. He's standing on the ground, next to Waters, who is scowling fiercely, and Harry, who looks utterly confused.

"That's not the spell I cast," he says.

"No. It isn't," Waters says shortly in reply. He holds out a hand to Draco, his features carefully composed, though Draco's trained eyes catch the blaze of anger in his eyes.

Harry furrows his eyes, still confused, but Draco ignores him for the moment, focusing his attention on Waters. He scans the man's face and quickly decides that it isn't worth trying a second time. He pulls his wand out of his sleeve and deposits it in Waters' hand. He doesn't apologize, though.

"I had to," he says simply.

"I know. Dammit, I know that," Waters says angrily. "But you really aren't helping what we're trying to do here! Do you _want _to be an Auror?"

Draco waits a beat, but the question isn't rhetorical. "Yes."

"Do you _want _to be _behind_ everyone else?"

"No."

"Ah, so you _do_ want to be field ready in a month?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to trust your partner?"

And to that, Draco has no answer. He knows that trust is an important part of proper teamwork. He _knows_ that. And he does want to be _good_, and not just mediocre. But does he _want_ to trust Harry?

"Perhaps for its consequences, if not for its own sake."

Waters sighs. "That will have to do, I suppose. Because all those other things are going to depend on it." He pauses for a moment, and then he pockets Draco's wand and jerks his own, levitating Draco into the air again.

Draco hardly notices, because he's still thinking about what Waters has said. He does want to be an Auror – he does, because he wants to prove to people that he is better than how they see him, and because he wants to make up for the things he's done. He wants to try to atone, even though he knows it will never be enough to fully make up for it.

But he doesn't just want to be an average Auror. He wants to excel, as he always does. He wants to be the best at what he does. And the fact is that Waters is right about that – to be _extraordinary_ at this, he's going to have to work well enough with Harry that they don't need to take the time for words. Work together so seamlessly that they just understand each other.

And that is, unfortunately, going to require trust that goes both ways.

"Ready?"

Harry nods, and then Draco is falling. He keeps his eyes open despite the overwhelming urge to shut them – he doesn't _want_ to see the ground rushing up toward his face. To close them, though, would be to cut off the only useful sensory input he's currently receiving: it would leave him terribly ignorant of the current situation. It isn't worth it.

He spreads his arms and wonders if he looks as preposterous as he feels – like a human being trying to fly.

He falls forever and yet for only an instant before he sees Harry raise his wand arm. The cessation of movement is jarringly abrupt, making him feel a bit like a rag doll as his limbs flop about without his control.

"Have you no finesse, Potter?" he asks snidely.

"Sorry! I was rather more concerned with, you know, saving your life. Figured comfort could take a backseat for once." He lowers Draco gently to the ground.

Draco just raises an eyebrow at him. "Have you no ability to multitask, then?"

"It's called prioritizing."

"Draco is actually right, here, Harry," Waters puts in. "You do need to be able to do more than one thing at once."

"I'm not entirely unable to multitask. I just disregard the unimportant things to leave more room for what's important."

Waters eyes him appraisingly before saying shortly, "Next time, gently."

Harry frowns, furrowing his eyebrows. "Is this you trying to get a rise out of me? By being harsh and unfair?"

Waters just raises an eyebrow in return as though to say, _What do you think?_

And Harry laughs. "You think _harsh_ and _unfair_ is going to get a rise out of me? I learned from Professor Snape for six years. You're going to have to do rather better than that."

Draco smirks. Waters may not know Harry well enough to get a rise out of him – but Draco does. Draco knows _exactly _which buttons to push.


	22. Chapter 22

_Previously: "Waters may not know Harry well enough to get a rise out of him – but Draco does. Draco knows exactly which buttons to push."_

.

"Potter, I have to say, now that I know you better, it only makes me wonder why you associate with those that you do. Someone like you could associate with anyone, and yet you chose who you do..."

Waters raises an eyebrow at Draco, and Draco knows what's going through his head. That is the closest Waters has ever seen Draco come to complimenting Harry – in fact, that's the closest Draco has _ever_ come to complimenting Harry – and _that's_ how Draco plans to get a rise out of him? By complimenting him?

Draco merely gives him a look like, _Trust me. I know what I'm doing. _

"I'm serious, though, Potter. I mean, I questioned your judgement from the very beginning. Just because Weasley was the first one you met, didn't mean you had to stick by him when you could do so much better. Look at the man! The only reason he's not still poorer than dirt is because the Ministry offered that reward with the Order of Merlin they gave him – riding on your coattails, as always, right? Has he ever done anything by himself?"

He's watching Harry try to stop his hands from clenching, and it makes him smirk as he continues, "Have you noticed – they paired _you_, the Golden boy that they expect great things from, with _me_, the Pureblood pariah, rather than _him_? It's evident who they think has the capability of being successful and who they don't. And I'm sure their methods are quite tried and true."

Waters has long since caught on. A small smile plays at the corners of his lips, but he seems quite content to just let Draco take this one, which Draco appreciates. He's definitely enjoying this.

"And really, why _would _they think Weasley would be successful in this field? All he's ever done is tag along with you and Granger – everyone knows which two were doing the proper, effective work. Merlin only knows what Granger even sees in him, but then, she always was too blind to see what was right in front of her, wasn't she? Always looking for success, acceptance, too blind to see that her methods of know-it-all-ism were only alienating her from the classmates she so desperately wanted approval from. She's nothing more than-"

And it seems Harry has finally had enough. Draco is quite impressed that he lasted as long as he did, actually.

Without a word, without a wand, without a gesture, Harry sends Draco flying backwards. His eyes are blazing a brilliant emerald, and his face is twisted into a look of fury.

Thanks to Waters' quick reflexes, Draco finds himself cushioned by air and then gently dropped to the grass. He lays there for a moment. When he stands, he stops dead. Harry has thrown him far enough that he cannot make out any detail on either of their faces.

He sighs, and begins the trek back. Finally, he gets close enough to see the sheepish expression on Harry's face, and the firm expression on Waters'.

"-understand that these aren't necessarily conditions that will occur in the field," Waters is saying, "but we have to prepare for every eventuality that we can."

"I know that!" Potter is clearly quite frustrated. "I'm just saying that my friends are a bit of a soft spot for me, and really, what are the odds that someone will start insulting them in the field?"

"Astronomically high, actually," Draco puts in. Both turn to look at him, and he continues speaking. "You're incredibly easy to read, Potter. Everyone who's ever met you knows that you wear your heart out on your sleeve, and everyone who's spent the slightest amount of time around you knows that you'd do anything for those you consider friends. It isn't hard to make the leap from that to vulnerability. Your excessive _caring_ is a vulnerability, whether you consider it to be one or not. And people can and will figure that out, and they can and will use it. You have to be ready for that."

"You think people might insult my friends to piss me off during a case?"

"I know they will. Someone at some point will. An angry Auror makes mistakes. I'm not going to let that be you, not on my watch."

"Careful, Draco," Harry drawls, the sarcasm thick in his voice. "Someone might actually think you _care_."

"Because I do," he says simply. "I care about this partnership being successful, and that's only going to happen if we're both as close to invulnerable as possibly. This is my chance to rebuild myself, Potter. I'm not going to let it fail because you couldn't handle some stranger insulting your friends."

"And you enjoyed it."

Draco tips his head, conceding the point. "That, as well." He turns to Waters. "What was that, exactly? Because it wasn't a spell."

"Damn right it wasn't. There were no words, no conduction, no conscious intent. That was a wave of sheer magical power aimed directly at you. You're lucky it didn't burn you to a crisp!"

"Raw magical energy?"

Waters nods.

"Does this occur often?"

"Not in children past the age of eleven – that's the thing. It behaves almost like a child's accidental magic. And it is, in a way, accidental outbursts. I almost wonder if it's related to his irregular development due to the soul fragment. Like it took the piece of him that knew magical control when it went."

"Hmm. That does seem the only likely explanation, at this point, because I can tell you this – he may have always been emotional, but he was never like this."

"I'm right here, you know!" Harry contributes, looking highly put out.

"Are you? Hm. Hadn't noticed." Draco's tone is utterly dry.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You're a real comedian." But he's grinning, and somehow Draco cannot help but smirk slightly in return.

"Because that, Potter, is my sole objective in life. Stand-up comedy. I'm so pleased you think I'll be a success."

Waters looks between them. "You know what I find amusing? The fact that when you two bicker, you bicker like friends, not like enemies. There's no real animosity to it."

Draco and Harry exchange a glance, and then Harry shrugs. "I don't know about Draco, but I know that I _don't_ consider him my enemy."

They both turn to Draco, but Draco will make no such declarations. He simply murmurs an indiscernible noise, instead.

But then he thinks about it, and he finds that the truth is that he _doesn't_ consider Harry to be an enemy – or, at the very least, doesn't consider him a threat. It isn't that he doesn't know what Harry is capable, quite the contrary. He's just seen the man perform wandless, wordless magic. Obviously he's capable. Draco just doesn't think that Harry is actually capable of using that against him. Harry has decided that Draco is someone he trusts, and therefore to turn against him would be some sort of betrayal – at least, this is as near as Draco can figure, because he still finds Harry near-impossible to read.

And then, abruptly, Draco is in the air once more. He sighs. This is already getting old.

"You know," he comments off-handedly, "I'm not sure I really believe this is teaching me to trust Potter at all."

Waters frowns deeply. "What? What am I missing?"

"I'm just not entirely sure I believe that you'd allow me to hit the ground, see? Even if Potter fails, I still don't think I'd hit the ground."

Waters sighs in exasperation. "Is this because I stopped you from hitting the ground when Harry threw you?"

Draco doesn't bother to answer that, as it's really quite obvious.

"You just enjoy making my job challenging, don't you Draco?"

At that, Draco allows a small smirk to cross his lips. "Mmm. No, that's just an enjoyable side effect."

Waters takes his wand, holds it up in a very precise dramatic gesture, and then hands it to Harry. Then he pulls Draco's wand out of his pocket, holds it up in the same deliberate fashion, and then hands it to Harry.

Harry looks slightly terrified at this point. He takes both of them, though, and he pockets them both.

"Happy now?"

"And how exactly are you planning to drop me without your wand, exactly?"

Waters groans and drops his head into his hands. "Seriously. It's like you're _trying_ to exasperate me."

Harry, who has been grinning at the exchange, wordlessly offers his wand back. Waters shakes his head.

"Nope. More effective if you drop him. Less dependent on reaction time, perhaps, but better for trust building, apparently."

And Draco wants to smile as he watches Harry's face go pale. "I… what? You want _me_…? No. No, I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Send him plummeting toward his death!"

"You're going to save him seconds later!"

"That's not the point!"

"So… You're fine with watching _me_ 'send him plummeting toward his death,' as you so eloquently put it, but you can't do it yourself?"

Harry nods.

Waters drops his face in his hands again.


	23. Chapter 23

Oh, look! Chapter 23, and we have maybe some semblance of a mini-plot! Yay!

Some timeskipping at the beginning – sorry if you hate that, but this fic needed to _move._

_._

The trainees stand shoulder to shoulder upon the stage, each one with his or her hands in front, one on top of the other, legs shoulder's width apart.

The official with a propensity for bellowing from the first day is standing in front of them, pacing back and forth as he speaks to a crowd comprised mostly of parents of trainees.

"Fieldwork is not to be taken lightly! In the first month of training, screwing up only hurts the screw up himself, and maybe his partner. Fieldwork, though, screwing up hurts people. There's a reason not everybody is considered field-ready in a month. These men and women, though, are the best of the best! And that's why I'm proud to grant a field-permit to every one of them. Each permit will be presented by the trainee's primary training Auror, so I'm going to give it over to Senior Auror Michael Waters for his presentations."

Waters looks as easy in front of a crowd as he ever does anywhere else. "I know every training Auror thinks his own trainees are the best. Only thing is, in my case, it isn't bias. I've had the job of training two of them most astute, intuitive men I've ever met. And they've managed to make my job a living hell." He grins. The crowd of parents titters as though they aren't sure whether or not to laugh. "We started out with one absolutely determined to do everything himself and another who didn't trust anyone but himself. Most of the time, training a newbie involves teaching the skills they lack. This wasn't like that. Skills, they already had. It was therapy they needed."

The chuckles from the crowd are a little less hesitant the second time.

"I'm not sure all of our methods were exactly orthodox, but I can say this – they were effective. It's impossible to change the way a person functions in a month, so maybe it'll take a bit for one to trust the other more than the barest amount, and maybe the other is too used to keeping everything inside, but we made progress, and I cannot deny that these two are field ready right now. Not perfect, but ready. And that's what we ask for.

"So I am… _supremely_ proud… to award certificates of field readiness to Trainee Harry Potter––" the crowd applauds wildly "–– and Trainee Draco Malfoy." The applause is noticeably less enthusiastic.

This isn't what bothers Draco, though, as he steps forward to take the scroll – an extraneous material representation of the forms that have already been signed. No, what bothers him is not the fact that these people who do not know him will not applaud him. What bothers him is the fact that everyone else has somebody. Even Potter, who _has_ no family left, has Granger and the Weasleys there, just as much for him as they are for the other Weasley.

He's scanned the crowd a thousand times already – discretely, of course – but his eyes flicker over it again as he takes his certificate, looking for her. He can't seem to stop himself. Hope is a brutal thing. He'd told her at least five times the time and date of this event. He knows that she's still not quite right, and he's still monitoring everything she does – or, well, Wilma is – but he'd still managed to hope.

He curses himself for that now. Shouldn't he know by now that hope only hurts more in the end?

He half listens to Zeus Dearborn speak about Weasley and his partner and how the two of them were very similar. A woman named Amanda Matthews talks about Longbottom and his partner, though it takes Draco a long time to realise that, because it isn't the Longbottom Draco used to know. He listens with mild interest as Elladora Moody talks about Finnigan and Thomas – the only pair that knew each other before training, and apparently it shows, because she raves about their teamwork. At that point he starts to tune out a bit, still managing to maintain a carefully interested façade.

.

"Draco?"

Draco turns around at the sound of Harry's voice. He raises an eyebrow. "I thought you were talking to Granger."

"I was. But I wanted to talk to you."

Draco already has a feeling this isn't going to go well, but he sighs and nods.

Harry looks like he's struggling over how to phrase what he wants to ask.

"You… She didn't show up."

Draco just looks at him. Harry ducks his head and starts to stutter.

"It's- I was just- I thought- It- It bothered you, didn't it?"

Draco maintains his flat look. "I am a human being, yes."

Harry laughs once. "Sometimes I wonder, you know?"

Draco just raises an eyebrow condescendingly, but Harry rolls his eyes in response. "Stop it with the eyebrow thing, would you? It's not fair."

"_Fair_?"

"Yes! I can't _do_ that. I've never been able to. It's like you're rubbing it in my face every time."

"You _can't_ raise one eyebrow?"

Harry shakes his head.

"Potter, I find you still have the capacity to astound me with your incompetence."

"Okay, stop trying to change the subject! She wasn't here, and it bothered you."

Draco glowers at him, but then he relents because he knows that Harry is too persistent. "Of course it bothered me. It isn't like her to miss events like this, all right? She… She used to see it as… a sort of chance to show off. It just highlights how everything has changed."

And Draco hates the sympathy he finds in Harry's eyes. He sneers. "I don't want your pity, Potter. Save it for somebody else. I'll see you on Monday." And, red Auror robes flaring out behind him, he whirls dramatically and stalks away.

.

"You're late, Potter."

Harry sighs. "By less than a minute, Draco. Kreacher apparently decided today was a good day to have a crisis."

"First proper day, and you're late. Not setting a good precedent, I'm afraid," Draco says, exacerbating the reproval in his voice because he knows it will annoy Harry. Then, "Kreacher?" he asks.

"House elf." Harry's tone is weary, long-suffering. "Inherited, unfortunately, and he outright refuses to let me free him. Long story, trust me."

"If you girls are done chatting," Waters interrupts from his side of the desk. "We do actually have a case. You know, your _first_ case.

Excited as he is by this prospect, Draco cannot help but still notice the light in Harry's eyes when Waters says this. Harry was always meant to be an Auror, he thinks, but then he shakes himself for being so… emotional. He's not even sure he believes in _meant-to-bes_, most of the time.

Waters pushes a file across the desk toward the two of them. "Nothing particularly unique, I'm afraid. Hate crime. Been getting too many of these since the war ended – before then, too, but more now." He shakes his head. "Merlin, I hate bigotry. People are blind with hatred, sometimes." He sighs.

"Anyway," he continues. "Nothing particularly severe – slogans plastered across the house, a broken window – but they traumatized a four year old girl who was walking home from her friend's house." His tone is full of tightly suppressed fury.

Draco opens the file and starts spreading the images out in front of them, his eyes skimming over messages written by wandlight – they glow with an internal luminesce, which only makes it crueler.

_Elitism gets people killed. How does it feel to be a murderer?_

This is by far the most prominent, but the others are worse, and even more of an ad hominem attack on the residents themselves.

Draco closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath through his nose. Hate crime could get tricky for him; after all, almost everything he did wrong was essentially hate crime – perpetuated because the victim belonged to a certain group.

He hears Harry gasp in surprise as he finally begins reading the slogans – clearly, Harry had started with the other details the images had to offer. That's good. It's more efficient if the two of them have different focuses.

He raises an eyebrow in question, and then, remembering the discussion the day prior, lowers it, and instead asks, "What, precisely, have you discovered that merits such an observation?"

"This is _against _a Pureblood family?"

Draco nods.

"But… I… What?"

"Do you live with your head under a _rock_, Potter? Everything is subtlety anti-Pureblood these days. No one wants to be associated with the Dark Lord, and so instead they all go to the opposite extreme."

Harry frowns. "Well, that's just plain stupid. It's just as bad!"

Draco shrugs. "Yes, well. People are stupid sometimes, Potter. That's just how it is."


	24. Chapter 24

_Previously: ""Yes, well. People are stupid sometimes, Potter. That's just how it is."_

_._

Harry is still trying to digest the anti-Pureblood message, and Draco is still trying to figure out how Harry managed to miss the growing anti-Pureblood sentiment in the months since the war, when Waters interrupts.

"With something like this, where we have an easy scene to visit, that's usually the first course of action." He takes a deep breath. "Look, this is a good first case. It's not likely to get violent or dangerous – the type that perpetrate hate crimes are usually cowards. They're the type to get angry, defensive, when confronted – but rarely violent. And that's good, I think. I've mentioned before that I wouldn't have passed you if I didn't think you were ready – but it can't hurt to be _readier_. So I think maybe something more… Not tame, but at least less extreme, will help."

He exhales. "I don't want you to think that means that you can put any less than a hundred percent into this case, however. You have to give every single case your all because if you ever fail – and you will, trust me – you need to be able to tell yourself that you could not have done anything more than what you did. You have to be above reproach. Because if you screw up on an easy case because you slacked off because you thought it would be easy, you will never forgive yourself for it."

Waters meets his gaze and then Harry's very intensely. "Don't make that mistake," he says, his voice quite and very fierce.

Harry nods. A beat behind him, Draco nods as well.

Waters holds each gaze a moment longer and then nods as well. He slips the photographs back into the file folder and picks it up. Without another word, he steps swiftly out of the room.

Draco, who has easily gotten used to Waters' abrupt manner on occasion, follows easily. Harry is two steps behind. Draco can't help the tiny smirk that flickers across his lips at that.

"Stop smirking, Malfoy."

"You can't even see me!"

"I don't have to," Harry says flatly. "Trust me. I know."

Without even turning around, Draco says, "Then no scowling from you, Potter."

"You can't see me, either!"

"I don't have to. Trust me. I know." He purposely mimics Harry's exact wording.

"Now, children," Waters says from in front of them without turning around. His tone is deliberately patronising. Both Harry and Draco smile slightly before shutting up, neither realising that the other does the exact same.

Ahead of them, Waters smirks.

They reach the lobby and the Apparation point, where Waters pulls several copies of an image out of the file.

"Have you ever Apparated by image before?"

Harry shakes his head, but Draco nods. Waters looks at him intensely. "I've never had that answer before," he says slowly.

Draco shrugs. "You've never had me as a trainee before."

He doesn't want to explain, so he's really hoping Waters doesn't ask. Because, really, how does he explain to his mentor in law enforcement that the reason he has Apparated by image before is that he was given a picture of a target for a raid? How does he explain that?

Waters examines his expression carefully, and he sees something – Draco isn't sure what – that makes him decide not to ask. Draco is grateful for that.

Instead, Waters just turns to Harry. "Apparating from an image is a little different. You can't _feel_ your location like you normally can – that intangible _something_ is missing. You have to concentrate twice as hard because of that. If you aren't good at Apparation, Side-Along could be a better move."

Harry shakes his head. "I can do it."

Waters nods, handing Harry a copy of the photograph. "Concentrate. We don't need you splinching yourself on your first proper day."

Harry nods solemnly. Draco takes the picture that Waters hands him – an image of the alley on the side of the house.

"I'll go first," Waters says. "There shouldn't be anyone, but just in case. Harry, you go second – I want Draco behind you, just in case."

Harry scowls but nods.

"Caution, not mistrust," Waters says, his voice quiet.

Draco almost smiles at the way Waters responds to what's gone unspoken.

_Pop_. Waters is gone. But Harry hesitates.

Draco sighs. "Just concentrate, Potter. You'll be quite fine, I'm certain."

Harry smiles. "Thanks, Draco."

But Draco rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't, Potter."

"Don't what?"

"Don't think that means something. I don't believe in platitudes. I'm certain because I'm _certain_, not because it's polite to be. Only an imbecile could fail photo-Apparation."

"You're so sweet, Draco," Harry coos teasingly.

Draco scowls.

"Just go, Potter."

Still smirking, Harry pops out of existence.

Moments later, Draco reappears in the alley.

"Few things," Waters says without waiting for Draco to regain his bearings – so it's a good thing Draco doesn't need a moment. "First, this isn't just a crime scene. It's someone's house. Respect that. Second of all – interrogating people is harder than it seems. I'm going to take lead talking to the mother – one of you, watch and mimic. Three people interrogating is always too many; it tends to make the person feel like he or she is being ganged up on. So the question is, then, which one of you is better with people?"

Draco and Harry exchange a look.

At the exact time Harry says, "Me,"

Draco says, "I am."

They exchange a look, both frowning.

"What are you on about?" Draco asks. "You don't know how– You have no people skills!"

Harry scoffs. "You're the one who doesn't know how to be _up front_ with people at all!"

"You can't manipulate people!"

"You _shouldn't_ manipulate people!"

"Boys! Because I can't even bring myself to use the word men." Waters sighs. "You two bicker like children, seriously. What you're trying to say is that Draco, you're good with people like a Slytherin, and Harry, you're good with people like a Gryffindor."

Another look is exchanged. "Pretty much," Harry says, shrugging. Draco tips his head in silent agreement.

"All right, then. Harry, you talk to the kid. Kids do better with Gryffindors, generally. Draco, you'll be with me."

They nod.

Waters sighs. "Look, just… Sympathy, okay? Someone just threatened their lifestyle simply because of their bloodline. That's stressful." He looks straight at Draco. "If you can't be sympathetic, fake it."

He holds Draco's gaze for a few moments, and then he turns and walks down the alley, Draco and Harry behind him. They stop for a moment, examining the front of the wall where the messages used to be. The wandlight letters are gone, but there are scars in the brick house front, and most of the words are still legible.

"Why haven't they gotten rid of that?" Harry asks. His fists are clenched at his sides.

"They've tried. Wandlight burns everything it touches, though. It's not normal burn scars. Nothing sticks."

Harry exhales sharply. "They shouldn't have to see that every time they come home. How long has it been there?"

"They found it last night."

Draco notes the flashing in Harry's eyes and puts a warning hand on Harry's shoulders. Harry twitches away from the touch, but he closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, and when he opens them again, most of the fury has drained.

_All right?_ Draco asks with his eyes.

_Yeah. Thanks_.

Waters looks in between them. "I admit, I truly don't understand how two people can function so well together and still not trust one another one hundred percent." He shakes his head. "You baffle me."

Then he raps his knuckles sharply on the door three times.

A small, dark haired woman opens the door just a crack. "Mrs. MacDougal?" Waters' tone is softer than either Draco or Harry has ever heard it. The woman nods carefully. He shows her his badge. "I'm Auror Waters, and these are Aurors Potter and Malfoy. We're here to investigate what happened last night. May we come in?"

Slowly, the woman nods and opens the door. As she walks into the living room, her arms are wrapped tightly around her stomach – a protective gesture. In the middle of the living room floor, a small, lithe, dark-haired child is tapping at a model of the Hogwarts Express. Without any prompting, Harry sits down cross-legged beside her.

"It's quite a bit bigger in real life, you know," he says with a carefree grin. She looks up at him warily, but his smile seems to put her quickly at ease.

"I know." She bites her lip gently. "Have you saw it?"

Harry smiles lightly at the wording. "I've seen it, yes. I don't think I'll ever forget the first time – I wasn't expecting it. I didn't even know how to get onto the platform!"

She giggles. "That's silly!"

He smiles easily. "It seems that way, doesn't it? But where I grew up, no one believed in magic."

Draco wants to complain about how ridiculously irrelevant Harry's entire conversation is, but Waters shakes his head sharply, once. Draco sighs inwardly.


	25. Chapter 25

I do apologize for the fact that I had the inclination to do weird things with the beginning. Blame Aldous Huxley and my spastic muse. I'm not sure I like it, but hey. Experimentation is fun.

A bit of rationale, though: This has pretty much exclusively been third limited Draco's perspective, and he's listening to and processing both conversations at once. That's why I decided to do it this way. If it ticks you off (or, of course, if you loved it), let me know so I'll know not to try it again.

Also, you guys are fantastic – this fic has officially surpassed 150 reviews and then some. I am absolutely floored by the response – I love you guys.

_Previously: "Draco wants to complain about how ridiculously irrelevant Harry's entire conversation is, but Waters shakes his head sharply, once. Draco sighs inwardly."_

_._

"No one believed in _magic_?" the child asks incredulously.

.

"Would you like a seat?" Mrs. MacDougal offers.

.

"Nope! Seems weird to me now, though. So, what's your name, kid?" Harry asks.

.

"Thank you, but we won't be long. I know this isn't easy, Mrs. MacDougal, but we need to ask you some questions about last night," Waters states calmly.

.

"I'm Millie!"

.

A deep breath. "I'm ready for that."

.

"I heard you had quite a scare last night, Millie. Want to tell me about it?"

.

"Your daughter was the one who saw it first, is that correct?"

.

Millie's head turns down as she stares determinedly at the model of the Hogwarts Express. "They called me a murder." She sniffles. "I'm not a murder, am I?" She looks up at him, her eyes huge.

.

Mrs. MacDougal shoots a glance at her daughter. "That's correct, yes."

.

Harry bites his lip to keep the fierce rage he feels from flashing across his face, knowing she could misunderstand. "No, Millie. You aren't a murderer."

.

"And how did you discover the, ah… graffiti?"

.

"Then why do they say those things?"

.

"She… She screamed. She's a good enough reader that she sounded out the biggest word up there – murderer. And she screamed. Terrified me."

.

"Sometimes people are cruel. Sometimes people just don't understand, and that makes them mean."

.

"And she was walking home from a friend's house, is that correct?"

.

Millie crosses her arms over her chest. "They shouldn't be!"

.

"Yes. The neighbor's, like she always does. It's one house over, and she's always been an independent child."

.

"No, they shouldn't. But some people haven't figured that out yet – they aren't as smart as you, clearly." He smiles softly at her. "I know you don't want to think about it, Millie, but I need you to tell me what you saw."

.

"You don't need to justify it, Mrs. MacDougal." Waters is responding to her tone, rather than her words. "Did you see anything?"

.

She gnaws on her lip. "I… I… Maybe, but I looked and it was gone… it might not be anything…"

.

"No, I think whoever it was had already left by the time I got outside."

.

"Don't ever be afraid to say what you saw. Maybe it doesn't matter, but maybe it does, and we can't know unless you say it."

.

"And you didn't hear anything, either?"

.

"It… There was a cloak. I saw it go 'round the corner."

.

"No. I didn't see anything or hear anything. I'm so sorry.

.

"That's good. Very good."

.

"It's quite all right, Ma'am. You've been helpful – sometimes nothing is as telling as something." He looks her straight in the eye. "I promise you, Mrs. MacDougal, that we will do our best to find out who did this and bring him or her to justice."

.

"I did good?"

.

"Thank you."

.

"Yeah. You did good."

.

"You have a nice day, ma'am." Waters shakes her hand firmly, then Draco does as well.

.

"I'll talk to you later, okay, Millie?" She nods solemnly.

...

"A cloak?" Waters asks once they're outside the house.

"Yeah. I'm assuming she meant the corner of the alley we came around. How did you hear that?"

"It can be vitally important to be able to carry out one conversation while listening to another. It's one of those weird skills that takes a while to develop because it's not really natural, but it can be ridiculously helpful. Draco was listening to both conversations, weren't you Draco?"

Draco nods. "Of course I was. I developed that skill because I had to."

Waters meets his eyes, and Draco doesn't want to hold his gaze, but he does anyway. After a few moments, Waters nods and turns back to Harry. "Low priority for you, then. Focus on other mental disciplines first."

"All right."

During the entire conversation, Harry's gaze has been flickering toward the scarred wall, and every time he looks he gets angrier and angrier. After a moments contemplation, Draco casts a glamour at it, creating a perfect facsimile of the wall without the scars.

"Happy now? You're such a Gryffindor." As usual, he spits the word _Gryffindor_ out like it's an obscenity.

But Harry just looks at him with gratitude. "Thank you, Draco."

Waters is staring at Draco like he's reading so much more than Draco means to show, as usual. Draco scowls for good measure, gesturing vaguely at the alley.

Grinning, Waters turns in that direction. "I've been told the Muggle Law Enforcement has people for this – special evidence collectors. We aren't so lucky. We have the Emergency Response Team – Aurors specifically trained to respond emergency Floo calls or emergency Patronuses – but other than that, the team that takes a case does everything from evidence collection to witness interviews to the actual arrest and interrogation of suspects. They have people – we are our own people. You think you've signed up to be an Auror, but really you're a jack-of-all-trades." He grins. "You'll get used to it; don't worry."

He claps his hands together briskly. "All right – this spell is going to be wildly useful, so learn it well. It will illuminate everything in an area that has only arrived in the area recently. The default is about twenty-four hours, though if you get good at it, you'll be able to tailor the timing and fine tune it. It's best in deserted areas like this, obviously, and has helped many times in finding evidence that the killer left behind."

He frowns slightly. "But, look. Don't ever think that magic is a substitute for what you can see with your own eyes. I've seen countless Aurors miss things that were right in front of them because their wand couldn't pick it up and they didn't bother to _look._"

Harry looks as though this is common sense, but Draco merely nods – he knows himself well enough to know that he could have made that mistake had Waters not pointed it out.

He shows them the motion – a weird sort of swirling movement that occurred mostly in the wrist – and then taught them to pronounce the incantation. _Inveniendum Nova(1)._

"Go on, then, Harry. Try."

Harry looks somewhat apprehensive as he stands in the middle of the alley, twirling his wrist and speaking the foreign words, but his face morphs into satisfaction as a massive purple wave blossoms out of the tip of his wand, leaving him, Draco, and Waters all glowing a faint lilac colour.

"You've always been sheer power over finesse, haven't you, Harry?" Harry grins somewhat sheepishly.

Draco is looking somewhat sceptically at his own glowing figure.

"Yes, well, that is a downside," Waters comments almost flippantly, scanning the ground around them. Nothing seems to be glowing. After a few moments, the vaguely purple coloured illumination fades. "Draco. Try."

Draco raises an eyebrow, but without a word he twirls his wrist and casts the spell. In moments, he is glowing, and mere seconds later Harry lights up, and then Waters.

"No showy wave of light for you?" Waters asks teasingly. Draco lifts the corner of his mouth.

"I rather prefer subtlety, as you well know by now."

Waters grins. "I do know, yes." His eyes are skimming the alley attentively. Still, nothing is lit except them.

After the glow fades, Waters shrugs and twirls his wrist, silently casting the same spell. Not even the briefest delay occurs before the three of them light up.

Upon close examination, though, they still find nothing else. They scour the alley with their eyes, too, and find no clues.

"Do you remember what I told Mrs. MacDougal, Draco?"

Draco shoots him a glance that very clearly reads – in a tone reminiscent of his late Professor – _obviously_.

"That sometimes nothing is as telling as something."

Waters nods. "So tell me, then. What do we know?"

"We know he's smart enough not to leave behind any clues," Harry puts in. Waters nods.

"Yes. What else?"

"We know that he very likely is _not_ a Pureblood," Draco says.

"Yes. What else?"

"He's a wizard," Harry mentions.

"Obvious, but still true. Don't miss the obvious facts. Good. Yes. What else?"

Draco hesitates. "If we're operating on the assumption that Millie MacDougal saw what she thinks she saw…"

"We are. Go on."

"Then we know… it isn't just about the crime. It's about the reaction to it. He wanted to see her terror. He waited around, when he probably didn't have to."

"Very good. I was hoping you'd get that. Anything else?"

"Well…" Harry says. "He may need to see the reaction, but it doesn't make him rash. He didn't stay to see the mother's reaction. Either the daughter's was more important, or prudence took precedence over that compulsion to see the damage he caused."

Waters looks between them, and then says for probably the tenth time, "Damn, somebody up there likes me."

.

(1) a non-direct, online translated, questionably Latin "find new." JKR's spells aren't quite Latin, so this is… altered Latin.


	26. Chapter 26

Okay, so I had a reviewer (thanks again, rexroy101!) point out the fact that we've had no reaction to the fact that Harry has been hanging out with Draco, either from the press or from Harry's friends. I think I've managed to neglect this so thoroughly because, well, this is Draco's perspective, essentially – but it's a very good point, still, and I'd like to make something of it. So we have a bit of an outtake in this chapter leaking into the next as well – a bit of Harry's perspective, such as it is.

Also, I love that you guys give me input on things like this. Because I got so wrapped up in the relation between the two of them that I sort of forgot about everything else – Concrit reviews make this fic better, so for that I thank you!

_Previously: Waters looks between them, and then says for probably the tenth time, "Damn, somebody up there likes me."_

.

They spend the rest of the shift interviewing neighbors up and down the street, Harry and Draco taking turns so as not to have three people ever interrogating a potential witness all at once. It's a wizarding neighborhood – and thank Merlin for that, or they'd have to bring in teams of Obliviators or find some way to explain wandlight letters besides, _It's magic_ – but no one seems to have even heard the crack of Apparation.

One woman gives Draco a lingering impression that she's trying to hide something, but when he asks Waters about it after the door closes behind them, he just chuckles.

"Good instincts, Draco, but not relevant to our case."

Draco eyes him in question, but Waters just flashes him an arrogant, _I-know-something-you-don't-know_ smirk and doesn't say another word on the subject. Draco sighs internally, but concedes to dropping the subject, knowing he won't get any further comment.

They jot notes on conjured journals with Muggle pens – _Muggle pens_, of all things – and write them up in proper longhand when they return to the office.

Waters says – or, well, demands, really – that they aren't allowed to complain about the paperwork, because being an Auror is a lot more paperwork than they let on in all the brochures. Grinning, he says that they make sure trainees are thoroughly hooked before loading them up, so that no one tries to make a break for it. He's still grinning when he tells them that when they get to the case-end paperwork, the day's end files will look like a cakewalk, and then, when Draco looks completely baffled by the expression, he changes it to a walk in the park.

Dutifully, Draco and Harry dot their I's and cross their t's – with proper quills this time, thank Merlin – and hand back the papers, at which point Waters glances at the clock.

"You're good to go, then. I'll see you tomorrow. Seven promptly this time, yeah?"

Harry's face flushes crimson at the light reprimand, but he nods.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Waters raises an eyebrow at Harry. "And what did I say about calling me sir, Potter?"

Ducking his head, Harry murmurs, "Sorry, si-" He cuts off in the middle of the word and fails to replace it with anything, leaving Waters smirking and trying to hide a snicker.

Draco glances at the clock at that point for the first time, and is mildly surprised to find that it's half and hour later than they're officially supposed to be off the clock. He raises an eyebrow at Waters in question, and Waters smiles lightly.

"I'm not one of those people," he says. Harry – having missed the silent interplay, as usual – frowns in question. "It's idiotic to write up daily reports the next day – it completely defeats the purpose of them, which is to write everything down on paper when it's still fresh in your mind. And to have cut off the interviews today would only have meant that we'd need to return to finish them tomorrow, and for what? Because we bow to an arbitrary time restriction we've set out for ourselves? No. You're off the clock when you're done for the day and not a moment sooner, regardless of which way those hands are pointing."

Draco nods, understanding the logic, but Waters isn't quite done yet. "Of course," he adds, "Legally, I'm not allowed to require that you stay past the point when that clock ticks to five. So if you want to be idiotic, if you want to be mediocre, if you want to just get by, you are free to get up and leave when it does so. But believe me when I say that I can make your training a living hell if you're that lazy – which I rather don't think either of you are, so I doubt we'll have a problem, right boys?"

Draco hasn't felt as much like a boy as he does in that moment in a very long time. In unison, both he and Harry nod.

Waters' smile is bordering on sadistic – which is, perhaps, just Draco's melodramatic side working it's way to the surface. There's no way their training Auror is _actually _a sadist, right?

Right?

...

_[outtake –– Harry James Potter]_

Leaving the office, Harry grins suddenly, and Draco shoots him a questioning look. Harry smirks. "I'm just imagining you trying to talk to Millie. It's an… amusing mental image."

Draco scowls, but it's halfhearted at best. "I would have managed just fine."

"Draco, have you ever talked to a child in your life?"

Draco purses his lips, frowning. "Theo has a younger brother," he says after a moment.

"And you've exchanged words past a greeting and a goodbye?"

"Not… precisely." Draco looks like this lack of child interaction is almost painful for him to admit – but then, Harry figures, it might well be. Draco probably sees this as a weakness he hadn't known he had.

Harry can't stop his grin from growing. He can't not milk this. "Ahhh, so the great Draco Malfoy has a lack of something _besides_ trust! I didn't this day would ever come, but look, Draco! I'm better than you at something."

"Oh, yes, Potter. The fact that you can best me in conversation at the level of a four-year-old entirely makes up for your various other deficiencies, putting us on level footing. Most certainly," Draco drawls in that tone where his sarcasm is blatantly evident.

Harry can't help but continue to grin in response. "I'm so glad you can acknowledge that, Draco! I think this might actually count as emotional growth!"

Draco scowls, but Harry notes the lack of bite to it. "No emotional growth is necessary, thank you very much. I don't fancy becoming some bleeding-heart _lion_."

"That doesn't mean you have to be the emotional Arctic, you know!"

"Just because I don't display emotions, Potter, does not mean I do not _have_ them. It simply means I have enough control to work around them. You, on the other hand, are completely driven by them. Where is the _reason_, the _rationality_ in that?"

"Sometimes, Draco, rationality is a downside."

Draco just arches an eyebrow at that, and Harry understand that this is a complete dismissal of his point as too idiotic for a rebuttal. Harry just smiles back, refusing to retract his statement, and Draco scowls lightly again.

"No house-elf drama tomorrow, I hope," he says, and then – they've reached the Atrium without Harry even noticing – he Disapparates. Harry chuckles, completely unsurprised that Draco is one for having the last word and dramatic exits.

Ron is waiting for him in the Atrium – Mrs. Weasley invited him for dinner, which Harry so rarely manages to say no to. He's a halfway decent cook for a single bloke – after all, he had enough practice as a kid, he ought to be – but there's nothing quite like Mrs. Weasley's cooking. Besides that, he'd really like to compare with Ron about the insanity of their first proper day. Harry himself found it exhilarating and exhausting and generally all around brilliant, but he'd like to see Ron's perspective.

It's weird, he muses, to think about the fact that, for once, he and Ron aren't doing the same thing. They're in the same program, but different training Aurors means things are wildly different, and it's just downright strange to think about.

Ron's face, though, is pursed in a stubborn frown as Harry strides across the Atrium toward him.

"You're late," he comments, but Harry can tell that what's bothering him runs deeper than that.

"We were finishing up the reports. Can't be forgetting stuff over night, yeah?" Harry grins, but Ron's forehead is still furrowed.

"Yeah," he murmurs in agreement. Then, after a moment, "We?"

"Draco and I."

"Oh, so it's _Draco_, is it? You and _Draco_ seemed quite friendly there."

And with that, Harry understands what it is that Ron has a problem with.

"Ron, can we have this conversation… somewhere that isn't here?"

Ron shrugs. "Sure. Fine."

Nodding, Harry turns on his heel and Disapparates.


	27. Chapter 27

Haven't quite decided yet whether this outtake is going to continue into the next chapter as well... What do you guys think? If it did, it would contain things like Ginny's reaction to Harry's partnership with Draco, and maybe some angsty George, because postwar George is angsty George.

_Previously: "Nodding, Harry turns on his heel and Disapparates."_

_._

_[outtake –– Harry James Potter – continued]_

There's something about Apparating at the Burrow that Harry finds immensely comforting. He feels… _at home_, more than he ever does at Grimmauld Place.

He supposes that this has something to do with family, and that silly cliché about how home is where the heart is, but really, he doesn't feel the need to question it. It's just a fact, and that's enough for him.

Ron cracks into existence behind him, a rigid set to his shoulders that makes Harry slightly uneasy. He meets Harry's eyes.

"Look, mate, I don't like it, all right? I mean, I know you have to tolerate him. I get that. But… Look, I don't trust him, okay, and I don't think you ought to, either. You can't just… _forget_ what he's done."

"Why not?" Harry asks simply.

Ron looks slightly confused at the question. "Because! Because forgetting it doesn't make it go away, Harry! Because forgetting he's done it doesn't mean he hasn't done it."

"You think I'm not aware of that?" Harry's tone is calm despite the anger he can feel starting to rise. "I believe that people are more than the choices they've made and the things they've done, Ron."

"People like him, Harry, they don't change."

"He has changed."

"It may seem like it, but you think he won't slip again?"

Harry knows that his eyes are flashing, and he barely keeps from clenching his hands into fists. "Yes, Ron. Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."

"But _why_? Harry, be realistic. He's a Death Eater!"

"_Was_, Ron."

"Bloody hell, Harry. A few months ago, you would have been agreeing with me. Now you're arguing with me, for what? For _him_? What changed?"

"I bothered to get to know him, seeing as we're going to be working together for a while. I didn't feel like working in an atmosphere of constant hostility, really. He's…" Harry feels the smile spreading across his face. "He's more than meets the eye, Ron. Yeah, he's sort of prickly, but…"

Harry hesitates. He was going to say that he's pretty sure Draco's outward prickliness is a defense mechanism – the only people not driven away by the prickliness are the ones that actually care, and it seems to be Draco's way of testing that.

But he's not sure Draco would particularly appreciate him sharing that with Ron.

Instead, he says, "He cares more than he lets on. And besides that, he's kind of brilliant as a partner." He feels the corner of his mouth lift as he says, "We… we work well together."

Ron scowls. "I hate this random partner assignment, you know. You and I should have been paired together."

Harry isn't sure whether or not to tell Ron that the assignment isn't as random as they've been told – surely his training Auror withheld that information for a reason, right?

After brief deliberation, Harry decides to keep his mouth shut on the subject. Ron's already a bit… _sensitive_ about Harry. About people who try to tell him that he isn't good enough for Harry, always the tagalong sidekick. Telling him that the Aurors felt that Harry and _Draco Malfoy_ were better suited for a partnership than Harry and Ron would only make him withdraw and sulk for a period.

"How's Alice, then?"

It's a deliberate change of subject and they both know it, but Ron goes along with it regardless and for that, Harry is grateful.

"Nice enough, I suppose." His tone is slightly gruffer than usual, and Harry arches his eyebrows in question and then realises that the habit of silently asking things with eyebrow movement is something he's picked up from Draco. _Best not tell Ron that one, probably._

"You _suppose_?" he asks as they finally set off toward the Burrow.

Ron shrugs. "I mean, she seems nice, but she's not real… social, y'know? She doesn't talk a whole lot. She's kinda intense, honestly." He grimaces a bit. "I don't think she likes me much."

"No?" Harry finds this surprising. Frankly, he can't imagine _not_ getting along with Ron. Ron is generally amiable to pretty much everyone.

"I dunno. It's… I mean, it's not like she ever says anything outright mean, but it's just the vibe I get."

Harry grimaces sympathetically. "That's rough, mate."

Ron grins back at him, though. "Yeah, well, I still say better her than _Malfoy_! I don't know how you do it, Harry. I'd go straight to the top and demand a new partner." Ron's face lights up at that. "Hey, that could work! I mean, you're Harry freaking Potter, the Savior or the Wizarding World, Fearsome Slayer of Voldemort! They wouldn't turn you down!"

Harry shakes his head slowly. "I wouldn't ask, even if I knew they wouldn't say no." He shrugs slightly. "I actually sort of like working with Draco. He's… It's good for both of us, I think. We… balance each other. And, I mean, yeah, we bicker, but it's not…" He purses his lips, contemplating the proper way to express what he means. "There's no malice to it anymore, you know? It's like we just… argue because otherwise we wouldn't know what to do with each other."

Ron sort of half-frowns half-scowls at him. "If you say so, mate. I still say you couldn't pay me enough."

Harry just manages to keep himself from scowling in return, and is grateful that their arrival at the door to the Burrow causes a natural end to the current topic of conversation.

It's more difficult, he thinks, to hear Ron insult Draco because of Ron's first point – that a few months ago, Harry would have agreed. And that… it makes him feel a bit guilty, because he can see now that Draco is prickly because he doesn't want the world to see that he's wounded. He sees now that sometimes people have to do things they really don't want to do in order to survive. He sees now that actions and choices are not always one and the same. Most importantly, though, he sees now that Draco is actually a human being just like anyone else – he lives and loves and even occasionally laughs. He _feels_, and somehow Harry had managed to forget that in his quest to cast Draco as the enemy.

"Harry, dear!"

He quickly finds himself enveloped in a warm embrace. "Lo, Mrs. Weasley!"

She pulls away, arms on his shoulders. "Goodness, you're thin as a rail! Do you eat at all?"

He laughs easily. "Of course I do, Mrs. Weasley. Kreacher keeps me well fed, I promise."

She pats his cheek. "Not to worry, dear. I made plenty."

Harry wonders vaguely if she listened to a word he said, but he finds himself simply grinning. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."

"Harry!" This time he finds his arms full of Hermione. "You never come around anymore!"

"Hey now! It's not like you come to my place either, Hermione! Besides––" he grins at her mischievously "––if I'm perfectly honest, I'm a little afraid to show up at your flat unannounced. Never know what I might find you guys up to."

Hermione simultaneously blushes and scowls at him, but she doesn't say anything, which speaks volumes.

"That's what I thought," he says cheekily.

"Harry!"

_This is really starting to get repetitive_, Harry thinks, as he finds himself with an armful of Ginny. She seems to be wholly unperturbed by the fact that he's still sort of holding her in stasis, which he feels really quite guilty about. When he'd finally gotten the chance to talk to her after the imminent danger was over, he'd told her that he needed some time to get his head on straight – that he was certain that he cared about her, but not really certain about much else, and that he didn't really want to complicate things. He wanted to sort things out mentally before starting something that he couldn't finish.

If he's totally and completely honest with himself – which he does generally try to be – he knows that he's not really inclined to pursue a relationship at the moment. It's not really his priority.

Besides that, there's still some nagging part of him that brings up his first image of Ginny whenever he tries to think of her in a romantic fashion – awestruck by an ideal. And he's not really comfortable with that, and if he gives it time and the glory fades and she's still there, then he knows that it's _him_, _Harry_, not the Boy-Who-Lived, that she's truly in love with.

Maybe that means he doesn't trust her, and he doesn't like what that implies. But maybe he's just being prudent, for once in his life. Either way, he told her he needed time, and she told him that it was okay, and she doesn't seem to hold it against him, which he appreciates.

"Hey, Gin!"

She grins at him as she takes a step backward, looking him up and down.

"You're happier." It isn't a question.

She's always been perceptive like that – he always sort of feels like she's staring straight into his soul.

He thinks about it for a moment.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."


	28. Chapter 28

I don't know why I felt the need to wax poetic about Draco's random choice of clothing.

My muse is weird.

.

Draco is up to his elbows in old artifacts in the attic when Wilma pops into existence next to him.

"Master Draco?"

"What is it, Wilma?" He sets down the cloak he'd been examining and turns to face her, knowing she wouldn't interrupt for something trivial.

"Mister Harry Potter is standing outside the wards, Master Draco. Wilma was wondering if you was wanting Wilma to let him in?"

Draco sighs, running a hand through his hair — then freezing as he realises that it's a habit he's unconsciously picked up from Harry.

He doesn't particularly feel like talking to Harry right now — don't they see enough of each other at work? — but he knows that Harry has the sort of stupid stubborn determination that means he'll probably stand out there forever if Draco doesn't let him in, so he sighs.

"Go on, then, Wilma. Thank you."

He glances down at himself, realising that he's wearing more casual clothing than is his usual wont. Waters had told them to wear what was comfortable to work, so Draco has been forgoing the suit in favor of dress pants and button-up shirts – because that _is_ when he feel comfortable. Potter's been wearing Muggle jeans and T-shirts, which highlights the difference between them in a way that amuses Draco.

Today, though, he's still wearing a button-up, but it's not buttoned at all, exposing the T-shirt underneath, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows so that he had more mobility while he was moving things around in the attic. The most unusual part, though, is that he's wearing jeans.

He'd gotten in the shower after checking on his mother after work. He didn't admit it to himself, but something about the messages on the wall at that home had made his skin crawl. If he'd allowed himself to think about it, Draco would have realised that it had a lot to do with the fact that the messages hit to close to home — the fact that he knew that he had, in a way, done a lot to perpetuate the stereotypes.

Instead, though, he'd simply given in to the urge to shower without thinking too deeply about it. As much as he believed in knowing himself so that no one can ever surprise him, he's still not given to examining his own weaknesses — it doesn't do to dwell on failure, in his opinion, and weakness is failure.

When he'd gotten out of the shower, however, he'd found that Wilma had taken his clothing to clean it. He'd sighed at her over-enthusiasm but proceeded to choose something new from his closet.

He winds his way through the boxes that fill the attic to the steps, working his way down through the Manor to the front door. He opens it and leans against the frame, arms crossed across his chest, watching Harry make his way up the long drive. He has a package in his arms and is still wearing what he was at work.

"I did not intend bringing you here once to mean an open invitation, you know."

Harry merely grins. "I know that."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Yet you decided to disregard this in favor of…?"

"I brought you something." He gestures with the package, and Draco sighs, gesturing his head for Harry to come in.

He pretends not to notice the fact that Harry is very aware of Draco's current outfit, and he stores the fact for later examination.

"I wish you would stop getting the urge to do _nice_ things, Potter. It's quite irksome."

Harry shrugs. "Not sure the _nice_ has an off switch, _Draco_."

The emphasis on his name speaks volumes, and Draco cannot help the small smirk that crosses his face.

He points to the table in the entryway and Harry sets the package down. "What is it, then?"

"Dinner. Mrs. Weasley always sends me home with enough to last a week, and I figured, well…" His lips quirk up into a smile that contains an unsettling amount of pity. "I mean, how often do you get a home-cooked meal?"

"Wilma cooks every night."

Harry shakes his head, bemused. "That's not the same, Draco."

Draco frowns. "So. You felt the need to stop by and feed me Weasley leftovers because you decided that I hadn't had a proper home-cooked meal in a while?"

Harry thinks about it for a second. "Yeah, pretty much."

"You are very strange, Potter. Very, very strange."

Harry just grins. "You're welcome, Draco," he says, and then he's gone, out the door, wrapping his robes tighter around him against the wind.

Draco eyes the package. Mrs. Weasley is famous for her cooking, but it's _Weasley_ food.

He sighs and sticks the package in the cold cupboard. He'll consider it.

.

Tuesday, Harry is actually on time. Draco opts to smirk at, silently reminding Harry that he still intends to hold the first day against him.

He thinks, surprisingly enough, that Harry actually understands his silent message. He wonders whether that speaks to Harry's increasing skills at perception, or their increasing familiarity with each other. The former makes him pleased, but the latter makes him simultaneously uneasy and something else that he can't quite describe.

He stocks that in the rapidly growing pile of things to examine later and ignores it for the moment.

At that moment, Waters walks in a flops a massive stack of files on the desk with a _thump_.

"The files of every non-Pureblood who's ever been arrested for a minor crime who's currently living."

Draco gives him a look that very clearly says, _You're not serious_.

"I'm very serious. Unless, of course, you have a better idea? We learned nothing from the neighbors; we have nothing to go on. We just have to hope that, despite how clever he is, he's been caught before. People make more mistakes when they're just starting out in the criminal world, before they get smart. Most criminals as savvy as our guy have been around for a while, and so have likely been convicted of something at some point."

Without a word, Draco concedes by taking the file off the top of the stack. Waters nods, taking the next file as Harry takes the third. "What are we looking for, exactly?" Harry asks.

"Right now, we're just trying to eliminate people. Pull out the files of people who seem less likely to learn from their mistakes. If you find anything that seems to imply a fixation with the reactions to the crime — particularly involving children — highlight that one. Three piles." He taps the desk in three separate spots. "No, maybe, and likely." He sighs. "I know it's boring, but this job isn't always glamorous."

"Aren't there… spells? I mean, Muggles have computers that can sort through this many files in an instant." Harry's voice is softer than usual — he's trying to be very clear that he isn't complaining, merely wondering.

"There are a few, but I've found there is no replacement for the connections a human mind can see. Too often spells exclude suspects simply because they're looking for a key word or phrase. Human minds can recognise when something is merely another form, whereas spells often can't."

Harry nods, turning to his file.

.

The maybe pile has been steadily growing. The no pile is much smaller than they'd all prefer, and the likely pile is currently empty. The fact is, convictions rarely include details about whether the criminal lingered at the scene. It's not a question juries ask.

Draco tosses another file in the maybe pile and stretches. Waters glances up at the clock. "Lunch break, boys?"

Draco feels like the word boys should be offensive, but from Waters, he finds that it rather isn't. The man is old enough to call them boys genuinely.

He and Harry exchange a glance and then agree.

"I don't suppose either of you actually brought a lunch, did you?"

"Nope."

"No."

"Mm. Yeah, that's what I figured." During the entirety of their training, for some reason that Draco didn't understand but decided not to question, the Ministry had provided food. The previous day, they'd been too engaged in what they were doing to think about lunch. "Easiest way is to bring a lunch and leave it in the break room down the hall, but if you've neglected to do that, well, the Ministry does have an entrance in the middle of London, if you aren't terribly opposed to Muggle food."

Draco is quite certain that he _is_, in fact, opposed to Muggle food, but then he thinks about it and realises that he's never actually _had_ Muggle food. He figures he can always complain after he's given the food a sporting chance — it's only fair.

Harry looks surprised at his complete lack of protest, and for Draco, that actually makes the decision worth it.


	29. Chapter 29

AN: Yes, I can see the double entendre in this chapter. If you can too, congratulations :D

191 reviews. Ohmygoodness. And averaging around 9 per chapter in recent chapters, which means this chapter could be the one that receives review number 200, and that is just… astounding. I love you guys. I love you all.

Also, I swear I'm not in charge of where these chapters go.

_Previously: "Harry looks surprised at his complete lack of protest, and for Draco, that actually makes the decision worth it."_

.

"–just don't understand how people can eat it."

"You can't judge the foods of an entire population by a single cardboard sandwich, Draco!"

"I can and I will, thank you very much! Turkey is not supposed to taste like sawdust. If it was even turkey. Which I doubt."

"You have bad luck. _Terrible_ luck. I've been eating in places like that my whole life, even if it's only been summers for the past seven years, but _still_. I've _never_ seen… Well, whatever that was."

"She hated me, though. I saw it in her eyes. Bet she hexed it or something."

"Draco, Muggles can't hex sandwiches."

"Did you _see_ her eyes? There was enough hatred in them to fuel the wards of Hogwarts!"

"Hatred doesn't turn sandwiches to sawdust."

"Then she gave it to me on purpose! I bet she keeps a sawdust sandwich in the back, just in case she decides to dislike customers for _no good reason_."

"I rather think your disdainful sneer was reason enough."

Draco glowers at him. "So what you're saying is that you're perfectly all right with her giving me something _supposedly_ edible but actually made of wood shavings, because I _sneered_ at her? By that logic half the world could do whatever they wanted with me."

Draco does not appreciate the smirk that flickers across Harry's face at that comment.

"Hmmm. I didn't even consider that." His voice is too smooth and too low, and there's a gleam in his eyes that unnerves Draco slightly.

"Don't go getting any ideas, Potter," Draco drawls flatly, keeping his unease tightly lidded. "That statement was merely showing the preposterousness of your statement."

"Yet I maintain that my statement was not preposterous at all, therefore your conclusion is sound." He taps his chin thoughtfully, clearly being over dramatic on purpose in an attempt to get a rise out of Draco. _It won't work_. "Hmm. Let's see here. If we approximate low and say you've sneered at me one time per year, and we were at school, what? About 280 days, still estimating low — I'm going easy on you, Draco, see? — then that makes what? Let's see. Three hundred times seven is 2100, and if you then subtract seven times 20 which is 140, that leaves us with... 1960 sneers. Approximately. That's 1960 sawdust sandwiches I owe you."

The corner of Draco's mouth twitches almost involuntarily as he watches Harry puzzle out the math aloud. "You, Potter, are absolutely absurd, do you know that?"

"Mmm, yeah, might've been mentioned before. Once or twice. Not that absurdity is ever bad."

"You're both absurd," Waters mutters, and both of them jump. They'd been so involved in bickering over sawdust turkey that they'd both rather forgotten he was there. "Never have I ever met two people simultaneously so observant and so blind at the same time."

His eyes are lingering on Draco as the weave through the masses of people in the Atrium toward the elevators and the stack of files still awaiting them. Draco raises an eyebrow at him, but Waters just lifts a corner of his mouth in reply. The other eyebrow joins the first.

"I think you already know, that's why."

"Why what?" Harry asks at Waters' seeming non-sequitur without the nonverbal conversation proceeding it.

"Why he won't tell me what he thinks I'm missing," Draco sighs.

"You're missing it because you don't want to see it, Draco, not because you can't."

"What I want or don't want to see does not affect what _is_."

"No it does not. Now convince your perception of that and you'll have the greatest self control a human being has ever possessed. The logical part of our brains and the perceiving parts have an innate disconnect — and for a reason. It protects us, because seeing what we want to see preserves _hope_, and hope is the most vital thing that I have ever seen. Without hope, human beings are nothing."

"That is a ridiculously sentimental notion."

"Nevertheless, it is true."

"Ridiculous."

"Sometimes it is the truth that is stranger than fiction, Draco."

Waters punctuates his statement with a sharp tap of his wand on his office door, unlocking it.

"Now. Files."

.

Draco finds his mind too easily wandering from the files, because they are all the same. He has strict mental control, but that doesn't mean he's perfect (difficult as that fact can be to admit at time), and he's still stuck on what Waters said.

_What am I capable of knowing that I am not allowing myself to know? What am I missing?_

He wonders if it has to do with his apparent absurdity, and reasons that it probably does, as Waters isn't usually one for the random insertion of irrelevant comments. He plays bits of the conversation back in his head, noting as he does so that his behavior did, in fact, warrant the label of absurd.

And then, as he's skimming the file of a 33 year old witch arrested for vandalism four years prior, he realises.

It's _completely _about the absurdity. And the fact that his absurdity comes out around Harry. And the fact that Waters must have noticed the loosening of Draco's iron control around Potter. And, as he examines his recent behavior around Harry, he realises something else.

That trait of his own that he'd noticed on the second day, where he had a tendency to track Harry's movements out of the corner of his eye, keeping a constant lookout: that tendency is entirely gone. He notes several instances in the last few days alone where he knew Harry was in the room but had no visual lock on him at all.

Which means that he's stopped thinking of Harry as the enemy.

And that thought is completely, utterly terrifying.

He flicks the file into the maybe pile and grabs another, not allowing his body to betray his current mental panic.

If Harry isn't the enemy, what is he? Because he can't be neutral — with the clash between them, it's obvious the relationship can never be neutral — but there's no venomous hatred, so what is there? They can't possibly be _friends_, can they?

He mentally shakes his head. No. No, that can't be it. There's too much between them.

Draco isn't even sure he knows how to define it, then. He can't think of what other options there are. They aren't friends and they aren't enemies and they aren't neutral and they're obviously more than _acquaintances_, but what does that leave?

_Oh._

_Well._

_That should have been obvious from the start, really._

Not that it's something they've chosen, which might be why it took a moment to cross his mind. It's a different sort of label, a functional rather than emotional relationship, but it's the truest.

They're _partners_.

The word does imply a certain amount of trust, Draco muses. It seems to say that they function together as a team. Yet it says nothing about any required emotional connection between the two of them. As partners they can harbour animosity, they can bicker, they can spar, as long as they _function_.

"I've got a likely!" The excitement in Harry's voice jars Draco out of his session of introspection. "Listen to this! Davis Herring, currently aged 37, was arrested at the age of 23 for a case of arson. He was still on scene, which baffled the arresting Aurors, because the fire had been lit nearly half an hour before, leaving Herring with plenty of time to make a getaway." Harry skims further down the page. "Yeah, and here. There were even kids involved. Two, a boy and a girl, 7 and 5 respectively, lived in the house that was lit on fire."

Waters' eyes light up very subtilely. "Arson is an interesting one, though. I mean, arson to hate crime? It's a bit of an odd leap, isn't it?"

"Not if the arson _was_ a hate crime. Who were the family?" Draco asks Harry, his introspection completely pushed aside by the case.

Harry's eyes flick back up to the top of the file. He frowns, his lips turning down. "The Shacklebolts. Kingsley is married? With kids?"

"You know Kingsley Shacklebolt? _Minister_ Kingsley Shacklebolt?" Waters asks.

Harry nods. "He's a good man. He was in the Order."

A _Daily Prophet_ article had run about the Order of the Phoenix and its accomplishments, so that was an answer enough in and of itself.

"That doesn't surprise me. He is a good man."

"You know him?"

Waters nods. "He was my partner for a few years. I lost a partner just as he graduated, so they put us together. He was young, but clever and fiercely loyal."

"What happened? I thought partners were only split when… when one partner dies?"

"He took a year off, when his first kid was born — his wife was a bit on the sickly side, though the nicest woman you'll ever meet, and he wanted to help her out. By the time he came back, I already had another partner, and…" He smiles fondly, if a bit sadly. "Alexander and I… I'm not sure I believe in fate, but if I did, I'd say that Xander and I were meant to be partners. Best partner I've ever worked with. Period. Bit like you two, actually."


	30. Chapter 30

200 plus reviews! I LOVE YOU ALL. Even my lovely flamer way back when, for contributing :D Sparkling Soul was my lovely 200th reviewer, so here's to you, Sarah!

I don't know how many of you are maths minded, but I had to figure out the numbers for this, and I found it somewhat interesting, so I decided to share. Feel free to skip this part if you don't care about years and dates.

I'm going to say Kingsley's first kid is 9 years older (making the younger 7 years older) than Harry, so little to no overlap at Hogwarts, therefore it's feasibly canon that Harry wouldn't know Kingsley's kids. That puts that first birth at about 1971. Kingsley graduated Auror training in about 1968, then, since Waters said he and Kingsley worked together for a few years before Kingsley took the year off when his first kid was born. That puts Kingsley's birth in around 1948. This fic is set in 1998. That would make Kingsley 50 and Waters about 10 years older than him, which does in fact, work out with the way Waters was talking about Kingsley as a younger Auror.

_Previously: "Bit like you two, actually."_

.

"In what way?"

"We bickered like the best of them, and we were opposites in almost everything. He was a bit of a hothead, like you, Harry, and I was the brains of the operation. He barely listened to anyone — but he'd listen to me just fine. We… respected each other. Deeply. Would have done anything for each other." He smiles in fond reminiscence. "It was one of those partnerships that, to borrow a Muggle term, followed the rule of Gestalt psychology: the whole was far greater than the sum of the parts. Together, we were more than we ever could have been apart."

He ducks his head, and there is the slightest note of roughness — barely detectable — in his voice. "We thought we were invincible. For 24 years we _were_."

"What happened?" Harry asks softly.

"He died. Saving my life. Three years ago."

And Draco has never seen Waters so _vulnerable_ before. The man prides himself on the strength of his façade, the impenetrable cheerfulness and general good humor. Instead, present at this moment, guilt and grief war in his sharp blue eyes.

This, in and of itself, is enough to tell Draco not to ask. This is the type of story that, if it is to be told, Waters himself will have to bring it up.

Instead, he skips the moment of importance. "For the past three years I've been flipping between partners. Almost all of us have. It's a sad fact of war that you can't get too used to working with the same person — creates a dependence, and it… It can cripple you, in a time that you can't afford to be crippled."

If the inhalation Waters takes is a little too strong to be natural, neither of them comments.

"Any other time, the dependence is worth it. Teams that learn to truly depend on each other are the ones that transcend the ordinary and reach extraordinary. You pass deliberation and reach instinct — you don't have to _think _about where the other person will be or what he'll be doing; you just _know_."

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm getting too damn sentimental." He taps the file Harry is still holding. "Let's go talk to Herring." He looks briefly thoughtful. "We don't really have enough for an arrest, considering the circumstantial nature… No, we're going to have to rely on luck. Hope he's somewhere we can talk without paperwork."

He grabs his black cloak from the back of his chair and stands maybe a bit abruptly. "And Harry? Bring that file. Just in case."

Harry nods, and they follow him back to the Atrium.

.

Davis Herring is not at home. His flat just off the main street of Diagon Alley is empty of any human life forms (as revealed by a quick _Homenum revelio_). His neighbor, on the other hand, is at home, and the elderly woman is perfectly willing to chat.

"Oh, Davis, yeah, I know 'im. Bit of a surly type, y'know? Looks normal enough, usually, but somethin' in his face just screamed _keep away_. Not much for _approchable_. Kept to himself. Not a whole lot of friends, see? Never saw anyone but 'im come and go in that flat. Why, why're you askin'?" She peered at them through her thick glasses.

"Following some things up, is all," Waters says easily. Draco immediately understands — this woman clearly thrives on gossip, and there's no reason to spread the entirety of their search to the whole block.

She hums. "Isn't dangerous, is 'e?"

"You'll be quite safe, ma'am."

And Draco can't help but notice that that is not a no. It's more a _not to you, he isn't_. He wonders how likely Waters thinks the escalation from cruel vandalism to violence is.

"Ma'am, could you possibly tell us where he might be? Do you know where he goes, by chance?"

Her eyes are sharp on Draco's face. "Now why would you presume I'd know such things, sonny?"

Draco holds her gaze. "It's simply that there is no benefit to _not_ asking. _Ma'am_."

He allows a slight note of what is almost insolence to slip into the last word, because he can tell she expects it. She expects disrespect, because it's what she's come to be used to from his age group. Perhaps it's slightly deliberately provocative, but at the same time it's the best way to get an answer out of her.

The note is slight enough that he can easily pretend it wasn't there, though: a backdoor. He's not a _Gryffindor_, for Merlin's sake.

Her eyes flash, and he knows she's heard it.

"As a matter of fact, _sonny_–" and her genial tone is almost entirely gone "–I _do_ know, but only because I _pay attention_. He wears the robes for a shop down the street a ways: Rodrick's. Must work there."

Draco smiles at her, disarming because of the note of authenticity in it. "Thank you, ma'am. I'm sure that will be very helpful."

She frowns at him. Waters is hiding his grin as he says, "Thank you very much for your help, ma'am. If you think of anything else that might be relevant, please don't hesitate to let us know."

"How'm I suppose' to know what's relevant if you 'aven't told me what you're lookin' for?"

Waters simply smiles, thanks her for her time, and turns, Harry and Draco right on his heels.

When they hear the door shut, Waters shoots Draco a look. Draco merely shrugs. "She called me sonny."

"That she did."

Harry is looking in between them rapidly. "And that means…?" he finally asks, realising that he's not getting a response without asking.

"It was the choice of word combined with her tone. She was almost subtilely derisive, and she certainly didn't respect me as an equal member of the conversation. She expected insolence. So I gave it to her."

"That's… I don't know how you do that. That's brilliant."

Draco meets Harry's eyes, and, to his surprise, finds nothing but sincerity.

"That's practice," he says simply.

.

Rodrick's turns out to be a sort of catch-all store, with spare cloaks and draughts of pumpkin juice and basic household potions and anything else a wizard could need at a moment's notice. They weave through the stacks of paraphernalia, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim lighting. A man is stacking books on a shelf behind the counter, but it isn't Davis Herring — this man is blonde, overweight but surprisingly nimble for it. The picture in Herring's file shows a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. Identification photos in Auror files automatically update when a person's appearance changes, so the photo is current.

"Hello," Harry says cheerfully. The blonde whirls around with a start, and his eyes widen when he catches sight of them — or rather, when he catches sight of Harry.

"Mr. Potter! It is– what an _honor_ to have you in my shop! What can I help you with, sir?"

Draco is hard pressed not to roll his eyes, but, honestly, he's surprised this is the first time they've gotten that reaction yet.

"We think you might be able to help us out, Mr… ah?"

"Lightfoot, sir. Jerry Lightfoot." And, finally, the man's gaze flickers over Draco and Waters in quick succession, but it promptly returns to focus on Harry, who is looking at him intently.

"Your shop, is it Mr. Lightfoot?"

Jerry nods very enthusiastically. "Yes, sir, Mr. Potter! Used to be my dad's, but he passed a while back, and it's been mine ever since."

Harry nods, looking very thoughtful at this. It's almost convincing, too.

"How much do you know about Davis Herring, Mr. Lightfoot?"

Jerry frowns. "Good guy. Little bit standoffish, but I think he was just sort of that loner type, you know? Great employee. Always on time, always polite to customers, even when you could tell that he wasn't in the mood. He'd grit his teeth and smile anyway. Never real sociable without a counter between you, though. Seemed a bit like he used it as a safety net, but when you took him away from that, his social skills just vaporised. Was a bit weird, but you get all sorts working in a place like this, and I've had much weirder over the years."

"Did you happen to notice any sort of… pattern, to these moods of his?"

Jerry shakes his head. "Nah. Came and went. Sometimes he'd sulk for hours, sometimes only seconds. Couldn't make heads nor tails of it, so I gave up trying."

This time, Harry's thoughtful expression actually looks genuine.


	31. Chapter 31

"And recently? Have there been any noticeable changes to his behavior recently? Particularly since the night before last, or the nights leading up to it?"

Jerry shrugs loosely. "Actually, Davis took the whole week off. This 'un and the last. Said he had some family stuff goin' on, needed to take care of it. Gave me 'nuff warning, too. He did, usually."

"How long ago did he let you know?"

Jerry looks thoughtful, briefly. "Dunno exactly, but 'bout a month, I'd say."

Harry glances at Draco, and Draco can see that Harry's figured out the same thing he has — this is starting to look very, very premeditated.

Harry takes a brief step back, giving a clear silent signal that Draco or Waters can ask questions, if they have any. Both give a short head shake, so Harry holds out a hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Lightfoot. If you think of anything else that might be relevant, please, don't hesitate to contact us."

Jerry shakes his hand, but he hesitates before letting it go. "Davie isn't in any trouble, is he? Only, he's a good man."

Harry looks a bit wild at the question, and Draco is about to answer for him when Waters speaks. "We're only doing preliminary investigations, Mr. Lightfoot. Just following the leads. You understand."

Jerry nods, finally letting go of Harry's hand.

"Thank you for your time," Waters adds. Jerry simply nods again, and the three Aurors turn and walk out.

"Discuss," Waters says simply, once they're back on the street.

"Premeditated. You don't happen to commit a well-executed crime right in the middle of your two week holiday from work by coincidence."

"That's true, but why the week after as well?" Harry counters.

"Could have something to do with the fact that reaction is so important to him," Draco says.

"Yeah, but a whole week?" Harry asks. Draco feels like he should be (or perhaps would normally be) offended, like Harry is questioning his suggestion as though it's wrong, _wrong wrong wrong_. But it doesn't feel like that; it feels like an honest question, and so Draco breezes by it.

"Reliving it?"

"Hmm. Maybe," Harry says. "Or lying low?"

"Lying low after ensuring the scene was absolutely pristine? Somehow that seems unlikely."

"Why else? What other possibilities are there?" Waters has that look in his eyes where Draco can tell that it's a leading question, that there's a right answer here that's already occurred to Waters that he wants them to see of their own merit.

After a moment's silence, Harry gasps. "Or he's prepping for another attack."

Waters nods. "We have to consider that a real possibility. That gives us five days. Anything else you learned from the shopkeeper?"

"Do you think his mood swings could have been according to the blood status of his customers?" Harry asks, more question than observation. "I mean, Lightfoot said he didn't see a pattern, but blood status isn't exactly something you see off the top of your head, and even if it were, that'd be a strange connection to see. Herring, if this is all about Purebloods, would probably know. I mean, Wizarding Britain is big, but it's not that big, and family names are easy enough to recognize."

"I wondered that as well," Waters says. "But it's nothing more than theory; even if it were true, it doesn't get us anywhere. Anything else?"

Draco presses his lips together for a moment. "I found it noteworthy that he lacks social skills without a safety net. Put that together with the type of crime and you can tell that he's never really going to be one for direct confrontation. He's more of a hide-behind-a-wand sort."

"Noteworthy, yes. Good, Draco. Well done. And what, my boys, do we do next?"

They exchange a look before answering simultaneously, "Talk to Kingsley Shacklebolt."

Waters grins. "You are fantastic, you know that?"

And away they Disapparate.

.

As they cross the Atrium, setting a course for the Minister's office, Harry asks, "Is Kingsley Pureblood, then?"

And Draco comes to the abrupt realisation that not everyone has the entire Pureblood genealogy in his head. That this is an anomaly, not the norm. Not that Draco can imagine it any other way. When Muggle-borns learned maths, he learned bloodlines.

But what comes out of his mouth is simply, "He is."

Harry nods. "I wouldn't have guessed, somehow. I don't know."

"He doesn't flaunt it. The Shacklebolts never have. He married a Pureblood though, and whether that's coincidence or intentional, I couldn't tell you."

Harry nods again, taking this in. "He's the Minister of Magic. You think he'll have the time to talk to us?"

Waters actually laughs outright at that.

"Harry, you're the freaking Savior of the Wizarding World, and you know the man personally. I'm the first Auror partner he ever had. Unless London is burning, we'll get in."

Draco can't quite help the smirk that flickers across his face at that. It says something about their society, he thinks. Something his father used to live by, until it sunk him. _It isn't what you know, Draco. It's _who_ you know. You've got to be smart, but more importantly, you've got to have connections. _And though it was his father's connections that ruined him in the end, that doesn't make his statements any less true.

The elevator trip seems to last a lifetime, but eventually they stop at the floor containing the Minister's Office — level one, all the way at the top. Symbolic, Draco muses.

"I imagine it drives Kingsley nutters, being all the way up here," Harry murmurs.

"Names, appointment time, and reason." A young witch at a desk speaks the words without even looking up.

"Mike Waters, Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy," Waters says promptly. "Appointment is nonexistent, I'm afraid, but we really need to talk to the Minister concerning a case."

"I have an appointment for next week Friday, gentlemen, will that do you?" She still hasn't looked up.

"I'm afraid it won't." Waters keeps his tone deliberately amiable. "See, we've got good reason to believe that this case really ought to be solved by Sunday if we don't want a repeat offence."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you may not speak with the Minister without an appointment."

"Shouldn't that really be for him to decide? If you'd just let him know we were here…"

"I'm sorry, sir. Even if that were allowed, the Minister is not currently in his office. I can take your names and have him look them over when he finds the time, but the Minister is a very busy man, and he does not have the time in his schedule for–"

"Mike? Is that you?"

Waters and Harry both spin abruptly at the voice. "Kingsley! It's been too long, mate, too long!" Waters says cheerfully, stepping forward and shaking his hand.

Kingsley breaks out into a smile. "I'd heard you three'd been put together. London underworld won't know what hit them." He frowns briefly. "What are you doing in my office, though?"

"Case. Main suspect is Davis Herring. Know the name?"

Kingsley's face goes dark. "You'd best come in." He leads them through a door at the back of the outer office. Harry shudders as he goes through the door, and Draco soon understands why as he follows — it's like walking through a bucket of ice, or a ghost.

"Spell deadener?" Waters asks as they sit in the expansive office. Spelled windows cover the entire three walls opposite the door. A massive oak desk is the centerpiece, with a high-backed chair behind it and three slightly smaller but no less comfortable chairs across the desk from it. The desk is covered in papers and knickknacks, including several pictures of Kingsley's family. Draco can tell, though, that it's an organized chaos.

Kingsley nods at Waters' question. "Bit like that waterfall at Gringotts, actually. Dispels all enchantments."

"Dead useful, that," Waters comments, and Kingsley smiles lightly at him.

"No, Mike. You may not have one."

"I said nothing of the sort!" The protest is faux-indignant, and Kingsley's smile only grows.

"Your eyes said it all, Mike, as always. And those things are terribly expensive, and you, my friend, are merely an Auror."

"Best damn Auror you've got, and you know it. Wouldn't have gotten these two, otherwise."

"Can't argue that. Doesn't much matter, though. Can't be playing favourites."

" 'tisn't playing favorites if we're legitimately the best, mate."

"Perhaps not, but I'm still not convinced this falls under the realm of justifiable expense. We're trying to lessen corruption here, you know."

"And yet you justified it for yourself. I see how it is, King. I see."

"Can't have people sneaking in and offing the Minister, now, can we?"

"Can't really have people sneaking in and offing your best Aurors, either." Waters' tone is deliberately sullen, and Draco fights the urge to allow the corners of his lips to twist up. Clearly, they're being trained by a child.


	32. Chapter 32

_Two things bear saying: 1. This story is, I have recently realised, wildly AU in that Neville, Seamus, and Dean all didn't take Potions NEWTs and so really have no way of being Aurors. Ooops. I'm going to go with they were so desperate for Aurors that they accepted them anyway :D_

_2. After this chapter, there will be one more chapter and then a two week break with no updates over the holidays. This is because I am a human being and I do need breaks sometimes, and our kind competition hostess (the lovely Shira Lansys) has granted us each two weeks leave for managing to update every single week for over half a year. I'm going to spend that time rereading this fic and getting my thoughts in order and hopefully finding a few loose ends that merit tying up. Thanks for understanding!_

_._

_Previously: ""Can't really have people sneaking in and offing your best Aurors, either," Waters' tone is deliberately sullen, and Draco fights the urge to allow the corners of his lips to twist up. Clearly, they're being trained by a child."_

.

Kingsley laughs at Waters' words. "True." He grins. "But my best Aurors really ought to be good enough to avoid a hit-wizard."

Waters laughs. "Can't really argue that, I suppose. But, really, mate, you're getting old if you can't recognize a threat when it walks through the door." He shakes his head in mock-disapproval. "And you used to be so promising, too."

Kingsley scowls good-naturedly. "And if I'm getting old, what does that make you?"

Waters grins. "Oh, I'm ancient, of course. Time just can't slow me down — always been too damn stubborn for that."

Kingsley smiles. "I'm not sure even you can out-stubborn time, Mike, but if anyone were to give it a rousing try, it'd be you." And then his face sobers. "What's this about Davis Herring, now?"

Waters leans forward, setting his elbows on the massive desk. "We're on a hate crime — wandlight messages found on the side of a house. Derogatory. Anti-pureblood. The kid who found the messages said she saw the man disappear around the corner just after she screamed. Not a clue to be found."

"And how does this connect to Herring?"

"We were thinking about the fact that Millie — the little girl — saw him–" Harry starts, but Kingsley interrupts.

"How do you know it was him that she saw? Wizarding neighborhood, wasn't it, or else wandlight'd be an idiotic choice?"

Waters nods, confirming Kingsley's assumption as Draco and Harry exchange a glance. Somehow, neither of them had even considered the fact that the cloak disappearing around the corner could be anything _but_ their criminal. Were they chasing smoke?

"That alley was a dead end. There were no traces of anything under a Nova." It takes Draco a moment to realise that "Nova" must be shorthand for the spell that Waters had taught them at the scene — _Inveniendum Nova_. "People don't Apparate from alleys in Wizarding neighborhoods, King, you know that. Not unless they don't want to be seen. A coincidence is never coincidence in crime-solving."

Kingsley nods, and Harry and Draco realise almost simultaneously — though neither realises the other is thinking the same — that despite their success thus far, they still have a lot to learn.

"So how does Herring factor in?"

Waters glances at Harry, since Harry had tried to explain it the first, and Harry speaks. "Millie saw him disappear. Yet the wandlight scarred pretty badly — badly enough that it was evident it had been done at least a reasonable amount of time before Millie came home and saw it. He waited. He stuck around, and it only followed that the reaction to the crime was important. So we went through files looking for anyone with a potential grudge against Purebloods and a history of sticking around after the act, and we found Herring."

"You're chasing fairy tales and a hunch, then?"

Waters grins unabashedly. " 'Course. Those make for the best cases anyway, eh?"

Kingsley laughs. "You've always been a bit of an adrenaline junkie, haven't you Mike?"

"Nah. That was Xander's job. I just like a bit of a challenge now and then. Can you blame a man?"

Draco can't help but notice — because noticing is practically what he _does_ — that there is no perceptible change in Waters' voice when he speaks of his old partner in casual conversation, but there's something in his eyes. The blue in them darkens half a shade. He stores this in the mental folder of things to examine later — noticing as he does that this folder is really getting a bit over-full and could use some attention — and tunes back in to the conversation.

"You're a bit of a lunatic, you know?" Kingsley is asking Waters, who merely grins in response. After a moment, Kingsley's humor tapers into seriousness once more and he asks, "What do you need from my end, gentlemen?"

"Whatever you've got," Waters replies promptly. "Whatever you remember about Herring. Whatever doesn't go in the file."

Kingsley looks thoughtful. "He was the broody type. All dark hair and hooded eyes, with a standoffish sort of demeanor. Young. It surprised me how young. Weirdest thing for me, though, was… I don't really know how to explain it. He just… he didn't seem to _care_, y'know? Didn't seem to care that he was caught. Didn't bother with a lawyer and all that. Just up and said he did it."

Waters frowns. "That's directly at odds with his meticulous manner, though. He doesn't leave behind clues, doesn't have witnesses, is careful. Organized. Why would he bother if he didn't care?"

"Maybe it's less out of self-preservation and more a continuation of the mission thing?" Harry suggests. "Maybe he's meticulous not so that he doesn't go to prison but rather so that no one will make him stop before he's finished."

"There's certainly merit in that theory," Waters says. "Unfortunately. Mission-based criminals are, as a general rule, difficult to stop in that it's near-impossible to sway them with words. They don't just change."

"There was one thing that could get him up in arms in an instant, though. One thing he _did _care about." Kingsley frowns, pressing his lips together in remembrance. "Blood status. That was the one thing that could swiftly turn him from placid to enraged. All I had to do was walk in the room and that was that. He wouldn't say another word but to rant and rave at me about my supposed belief in my own superiority and my selfishness, wanting to keep magic all to myself."

Draco and Waters exchange a glance, both of them thinking the same thing: _We can use that_.

Kingsley isn't done yet, though. "It wasn't long after the first war ended. '84, I think it was, so around three and a half years. Everyone was still patching up the leaks. He was trying to split the floodgates wide open. Didn't seem to understand that switching the direction of the flood doesn't make it any less tragic, doesn't make it any less _wrong_." He sighs. "I wanted to be angry. I was. For a long time. He tried to send my _kids_ up in flames, and that is unforgivable and unforgettable. But I'm not angry anymore. I can't be. Because he just _doesn't understand._" He sighs again. "You know, Mike. You know that the cases where the criminal thinks he's doing the right thing have always been the hardest for me. I hate him for what he did, but at the same time I feel sorry for him."

A small smile flickers across Waters' face. "You always were the heart of the operation, weren't you, King?" At the look on Kingsley's face, he backpedals. "Oh, no, mate. Not a bad thing. It's what makes you such a good minister, especially now. You _feel_. And that means you go into things with your eyes wide open, but it doesn't mean that you can't make hard calls. You've always been good at balancing."

Kingsley shakes his head. "This is just temporary."

"And you're saying you would honestly turn it down if they asked you to stay?"

And Kingsley doesn't meet Waters' eyes, which is answer in and of itself.

"That's what I thought."

When Kingsley looks up, his eyes are hard. "Find him, Michael. Find him, before he goes after any more children. Find him before he burns any more lives to the ground."

Waters meets hard brown eyes with firm blue. "We plan on it."

Kingsley nods. "There is no one I would trust more," he says intently.

"And there is no higher praise than that."

After a moment's silence, the three Aurors stand up almost simultaneously. Waters reaches out and shakes Kingsley's hand firmly. "Thank you, Minister."

"Oh, don't you dare start that, Auror Waters!"

A smile flits across Waters' features. "Touché. Thanks, King. We really appreciate it." He sighs. "I know it's not easy, sometimes."

Kingsley shrugs. "If it helps, it's worth it a thousand times over." He shakes Harry's hand, and then Draco's. Draco cannot help analysing his eyes as he does, and he is mildly surprised to find no hesitation, no mistrust. That's been rare lately. Draco'd thought he'd been getting used to the perpetual suspicion of everyone around him, but somehow the lack of it still crashes over him in a wave of relief. He nods sharply, recognising as he does so that Kingsley has seen almost as much in Draco's eyes as Draco has in his.

After a moment of mutual understanding, the acting Minister lets go of his hand, and they depart, Draco unable to shake the feeling and not entirely sure he even wants to.


	33. Chapter 33

It'll be approximately three weeks until the next update (two weeks off, plus the normal one week between updates), so happy holidays everyone!

Also, as two awesome reviewers pointed out, apparently everyone who participated in the Final Battle was offered entrance into Auror training. Hooray for _not_ being wildly AU!

_Previously: "After a moment of mutual understanding, the acting Minister lets go of his hand, and they depart, Draco unable to shake the feeling [of relief] and not entirely sure he even wants to."_

_._

Waters sighs as they leave the office, glancing at his wrist. "That's about all we have time for today, boys. Reports, and then you're off the clock."

Harry frowns, furrowing his eyebrows. Waters raises an eyebrow at him in question as a reply.

"Two questions," Harry says. "One, how in the world do you know what time it is? Two, that's it? You said earlier that this is urgent, that we have to find him before he finds a new target. You promised Kingsley that we would. And we're just going to clock out and go home?"

"The answer to the first is that there's a Tempus Charm embedded in my wrist, but only I can see it. Damn handy when you don't have time for a spell. As for the second, well, you're always free to disregard it, but that's the way it goes sometimes. You can't kill yourself on a case, Harry, because there will always be another one waiting when you're done. You need to relax, and spend time away from all of this. But I can't stop you from staying, either."

"We have five days to track down one man." Draco's tone is purposely not directed one way or another; it's a simple statement of fact.

"What happens when five becomes four becomes three and we've wasted two-thirds of it doing nothing?"

Draco's eyes flash at the word nothing — _what he does at home is not _nothing_, he's keeping his mother functioning, thank you very much_ — but he skims over it and instead responds to Harry's actual point. "What happens when you collapse of exhaustion outside his hideout and can't apprehend him at all?"

"What happens if it's not Herring at all and we have to start over from scratch?" Harry counters.

"Potter!" Draco snaps, frustrated, and, as usual, less in control than he'd like around Harry. "You are not Merlin, for goodness' sake! You aren't a saint, and you aren't God! Stop trying to be perfect! Stop trying to be the hero all the time. _There are going to be people you can't save_. You have to learn that now, or you have to find a new profession — or, barring that, a new partner, because I'm not going to deal with your attempts to martyr yourself."

"But–"

"No," Draco interrupts firmly. "You aren't invincible, and you can't carry the whole world on your shoulders, and you have to learn that now or it will destroy you. I know you're used to everyone putting it all on you, but you don't have to anymore. You're not responsible for everyone, despite what they're determined to think. Just because you've saved them before, doesn't mean you have to be there every time. You _can't_ be there every time. You're human. You're nineteen. Live your life. Save people, if that's what you want to do with it, but don't hold their lives in your hands, because you cannot be everywhere all the time."

For perhaps the first time, Draco hadn't known what was going to come out of his mouth until it did. He hadn't know he'd even _felt_ all of that, not to mention had the motivation to _say_ all of it. He wants to look away, look down — instinctively, he wants to hide his gaze and not have to face the look on Harry's face, or Waters'. But he won't. He holds Harry's emerald gaze steadily, notes the look of pure shock on his face.

"I know that I'm not invincible," Harry says quietly.

"Do you?" Draco cannot help but challenge.

"Yes. I do."

"Well, then why doesn't that stop you from trying to be?"

"I do what I _can_."

"And blame yourself for what you can't."

Harry drops his eyes to the floor, unable to hold Draco's gaze. That's answer enough.

Draco finds himself slightly unnerved by the look that Waters is giving him. Calculating, piercing. As usual, he sees more than Draco would prefer. After a moment, the piercing gaze shifts to focus on Harry, just as observant, though Harry doesn't noticed it at all, his eyes still firmly fixed on his trainers.

Draco raises an eyebrow at Waters, a silent question about what he sees. Waters merely hums, and then he spins on his heel and walks toward the office they all currently share. Draco sighs and follows him. After a moment, he hears the louder (that, of course, being a relative term — really Harry walks quite softly, compared to average) tread of Harry following behind.

The journey is a silent one, each man lost in his own thoughts. Upon their arrival in the office, the tread of feet turns to the scratch of quills and the silence lingers. Draco knows, instinctively, that all three of them are mulling over his heated words. Waters is probably analysing underlying meanings and unlocking the mysteries of Draco's subconscious. Harry is probably trying to figure out exactly what Draco meant by all of that. As for Draco himself? He's just trying to figure out where all of that came from, and how much of it he meant. How much of it he _felt_.

He writes down the last of what he remembers of the conversation with Kingsley and stands.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he murmurs softly, twirling his cloak around to land on his shoulders and fastening the clasp. Without waiting for a response, he sweeps out of the room.

The question stuck in his mind — whirling 'round and 'round and 'round — is, _Why do I even care_?

That's what he can't seem to process, can't seem to make sense of. Why does he _care_ if Harry works himself to the bone. Why does it _matter_ to him? It's not like he's ever really cared about Harry's well-being before — well, aside from the _don't-you-dare-die-Potter-because-if-you-do-we're-all-dead_ way, and that doesn't really count.

So why does he care _now_?

He tries to tell himself that it's because, in a way, he and Harry are dependent upon each other now. If something happens to one, the other will be left struggling to stay afloat.

He's not sure he believes his own theory, but before he can examine it too deeply, he reaches the Atruim and disappears with a pop.

"Wilma!" he calls as he walks in the door, hanging his cloak on the hook by the door. She appears in front of him instantly with a crack.

"Master Draco is being home!"

"Yes, Wilma, thank you. I hadn't noticed," he murmurs dryly, walking toward the kitchen without even looking back to see if she's following. She is. She always is.

"Will Master be wanting supper soon?" she asks.

Draco sighs. "Not now, Wilma. I was just going to make myself a cup of tea." He forestalls her question by putting up a hand. "No, I want to do it myself." The motions, the monotony will relax him and allow his brain to mull things over while occupying his hands.

He pulls the teapot out of the cupboard and taps it, murmuring, "_Aguamenti_." Water pours out of the tip of his wand until the pot is full and then ceases. He sets the pot carefully on the spelled portion of the countertop and taps that with his wand twice, causing it to instantly heat up. He sighs. "How is she today, Wilma?" he murmurs tiredly, without even turning around.

Wilma's voice is small, smaller than usual as she replies, "Mistress is finding the window very interesting today, Master."

A loose exhalation that is almost a sigh.

A beat of silence.

The teapot whistles.

Without really thinking, he reaches up into the cupboard and pulls out two cups and a tin of tea leaves. His hands go through the motions automatically, preparing both cups —one plain, and one with half of a spoonful of sugar.

He places both cups on a tray and hands the tray to Wilma before rubbing his face.

Another sigh escapes as he winds his way through the seemingly endless corridors towards her rooms — the same rooms she's inhabited as long as Draco can remember. She's trying to find him, Lucius, there. She's clinging to the memories. And, as much as he knows it's hurting her, he can't bring himself to tear her away.

He hesitates at the door for only the briefest of moments before knocking.

"Mother, I've brought you a cup of tea. May I come in?"

As is the usual lately, he gets no response.


	34. Chapter 34

I do not like this chapter. Particularly the middle.

I do not have time to scrap it and start over. Because I'm a terrible author and I procrastinate. The more time I have to work on things, the worse they wind up.

I apologise for that.

_Previously: ""Mother, I've brought you a cup of tea. May I come in?" / As is the usual lately, he gets no response."_

.

He calls out one more time to no response before twisting the knob. As Wilma said, she stares out the window, her gaze quite fixed. He flicks his wand at the dying fire in the grate, causing it to flare up again. Wilma sets the tray down on the bedside table and Draco nods at her to go. She nods and pops out.

He picks up the cup of tea with sugar and walks the few short paces to the window, stopping just behind her left shoulder. "Mum?" His voice is barely above a whisper.

Slowly, her head turns toward him. Her dead eyes skim his face. "Hello, love." Her voice is dry, a rasp. He hands her the tea. Wordlessly, she sips it.

"What have you eaten today, Mother?"

"Enough."

"By my standards, or by yours?"

"By Wilma's, Draco. Enough."

And Draco knows without saying that the word enough holds more than one meaning there. It is both an answer to his question and a declaration. She's had enough. Whether that means enough of his interference or enough of it all, he does not know. And that terrifies him. It's an important distinction, and he can't tell. His own mother, and he can't tell.

He hates not knowing.

But he hates watching her slip away from him even more. He's absolutely terrified that one day she'll slip so far, he won't be able to drag her back anymore. She's slipping into a black abyss, and he's terribly afraid that that's where she truly wants to be.

But he can't say any of that, because he may not know what she needs, but it isn't a slap in the face, metaphorical or literal. Instead, he places a hand on her shoulder and stares out the window with her for long moments until his tea's gone cold and hers is nothing but dregs and the clouds clear and he can see Draco in the sky. She yawns and Wilma appears in the doorway, so Draco kisses her cheek and murmurs, "I love you, Mother. I wish you could see that." And he leaves, feeling simultaneously warmer and colder than he did before entering, and no more enlightened.

Without thinking, his hands prepare a fresh cup of tea in the kitchen, and he settles with it in the library, contemplative. He has decided that it is high time that he stop deluding himself and analyse things that are long overdue. As always, he decides to tackle them in a logical manner: chronologically. Starting now, and working backward. Which, unfortunately, means the first thing he needs to face is whatever happened today. Harry's self destructive tendencies and why Draco cares.

The obvious reason is that Draco has to depend on Harry for their training, but what he said himself echoes in his head — _"or, barring that, a new partner, because I'm not going to deal with your attempts to martyr yourself."_ The thing is, this statement is perfectly reasonable. If Harry is going to drive himself to the brink, there's no reason Draco _couldn't_ simply request a new partner. No, the obvious reason is not the correct reason.

The problem is that the only alternative Draco can think of is that he actually _cares_, He actually _cares_ whether or not Harry drives himself into the ground, _for Harry's sake_. And that's absolutely terrifying, because Harry — Harry _I-am-a-death-magnet_ Potter — is a terrible person for Draco to choose to _care_ about. Not that _choose_ is precisely the right word. Draco has had no choice in any of this _caring _nonsense. But, verbiage aside, if he were going to care, he couldn't pick a worse person than his ex-enemy who has near-death experiences almost daily. Caring for _Potter_ is practically asking to get hurt.

No. That can't be it. Draco would never do anything that stupid. Unable, however, to think of any alternative, he sets that issue aside for the moment and moves to the next.

The next thing Draco recalls storing for future consideration is also from today — Waters, in Kingsley's office, and the slight darkening of his eyes when he mentioned his ex-partner. Draco marks this observation down in the category of _unable-to-pin-down-without-answers-from-someone-else_. He would need the full story from Waters to truly understand that flash of color — it isn't something he can puzzle out from an armchair.

His memory skips and jumps back to the day Harry spontaneously stopped by with Weasley leftovers that Draco never wound up eating and a gaze that lingered too long on Draco's choice of clothing. He marks the expression up to surprise — after all, if memory served, it'd been years since Potter had seen Draco in jeans. He'd favored suits his last two years of school, and dress pants and button ups , surprise made the most logical sense.

The memory tape rewinds again, back to the hospital and the memories he hates to recall, and Potter standing in a doorway saying thank you for something Draco had never intended to do, and mumbling something about a cousin's apology.

He sorts through the fact that Harry had actually gone to his estranged relatives just because of some things Draco had said about family. He realises that "Dudley" is the cousin — the cousin who might actually "be a decent human being," the wonderment in Harry's tone implying that he once wasn't expected to be. Draco wishes he had a less vivid imagination, because he doesn't need to see what his mind thinks this cousin has done, and bits and pieces of a story do not make a whole. An aversion to conversation about it and a stubborn insistence that it wasn't as bad as it sounded did not mean the worst. It simply meant bad. But Draco's mind stubbornly conjures the worst, until he shoves it out a cannon slot in the Great Wall of his shields and shuts it out entirely. Self-examination, yes. Imagination examination, not so much.

He trails further back through his memories, back to the failed Occlumency lesson — which, now that he thinks about it, he really needs to get on top of that research about testing shields. It'd drifted to the bottom of his priority list at some point. He remembers Harry's unexpected flash of anger, now explained by the situation with the Horcruxes and Harry's regression. He skips through the last few weeks and notes zero incidences of lost control and allows himself to be satisfied for the short term.

He remembers the brief tremors in Harry's hands as he asked if Draco wanted tea in Grimmauld Place. He examines the rest of his memories for signs of tremors and finds none. He looks closely at the difference between that situation and the rest.

He notes too many similarities and so few differences and the only explanation his mind can come up with is the inactivity of that moment. The tremors that faded as soon as Harry was _doing_ something. He remembers Harry grinning somewhat sheepishly and saying, "_I'm sort of addicted to adrenalin._" He'd thought it was just the sort of addiction where people use the word but don't really mean it, really just mean something they can't live without, not something they need constantly or suffer withdrawals.

He falls asleep that night with too many questions whirling through his mind and not enough answers.

.

"How's the Occlumency shield coming, then, Potter?" he asks the next day, before they're technically on the clock, standing in the Auror hallway. Harry gives him a look like a Bowtruckle faced with a _Lumos_.

"Er…"

"Come on, Potter, just because I can't test it doesn't mean you shouldn't practise!"

"Er…"

And Draco doesn't bother to suppress his snicker. "Yes, so you've said. Should I take that to mean you haven't been practising?"

Harry shrugs sheepishly. "It hasn't really been a priority."

"It is now." Draco doesn't bother to mention the fact that it hasn't been for him, either.

Harry nods.

"Potter?" A dark glare. Draco sighs. "Harry?"

Harry smiles and raises his eyebrows in question.

"When you mentioned that you were addicted to adrenalin… did you mean that literally?"

Harry frowns. "How else would I have meant it?"

Draco isn't quite sure he's getting his question across properly. "I mean… I noticed, a while back, that your hands were shaking briefly. Is that common?"

Harry shrugs. "More common than it ought to be, not common enough that it's a problem. And yeah, that's exactly what it's about. They only shake when I'm not occupied." He grins. "Part of why I love this job. They don't shake here."

He flexes his fingers, holding his hands up. They are completely steady.

Draco files the information under the label, _interesting to know but not likely to become relevantly helpful or harmful._

They step into the office.


	35. Chapter 35

_Previously: "They step into the office."_

.

"Don't get comfortable," Waters says the minute they step into the office. "Spell in and we're out of here. We've got a lead."

There's a sort of light in his eyes that Draco hasn't yet seen there — _the thrill of the chase_, he thinks, and immediately realises its accuracy. And then he pauses a moment and takes stock of the adrenalin buzzing through his own veins and he wonders whether its an Auror thing or a people thing, but he figures now isn't the time to figure it out.

He taps his wand on the small device that records hours and it flashes his name in holographic letters. Harry taps it after him and it flashes his name. Draco is already slipping his arms back into the sleeves of his cloak.

With quick steps, Waters leaves the room, both of them only a half a step behind him. As they walk, he explains. "I put a flag out on Herring's name." He pauses for a brief moment, not slowing his pace. "D'you remember the Taboo on Voldemort's name?"

Draco nods, and Harry murmurs, "I certainly do."

Waters looks at him, knowing there is a story behind that and knowing that now is not the time to ask. "It's sort of like that," he says instead. "Only slightly more comprehensive, and slightly more sensitive. It sends up a flag if the name is written or spoken aloud. I didn't expect it to flag anything, honestly — it needs first and last name to work, and how often do you call someone by both? And besides that, the odds that he would even be interacting with anyone… but we got a flag."

Draco feels his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "And you expect Herring himself to be there? Isn't it more likely that he won't be, considering the full name?"

Waters grins almost predatorily, and for just an instant Draco has the thought that he's glad he's not against the Aurors anymore, because he wouldn't want Waters pitted against him. "That's where the nature of our suspect comes into play. Herring is a recluse, standoffish. But he's not blatantly rude. He's quiet about his hatred. He's quiet about everything, except when he snaps, and even then he's quiet in his satisfaction. He's the sort that will drift straight to the background until no one even knows he's there. People don't talk about Herring. They don't. Or if they do, it isn't by name — likely most people don't even know it. No, this is a man whose name would be known only by his enemies, his friends, and his associates. We've already talked to his enemies, he doesn't have any friends. It's odds I'd bet on that he's there."

Draco nods, and Harry asks, "So… we're walking into the spot we think he is… by ourselves?"

"Nope. We're doing _surveillance_ on the spot where we think he is by ourselves. Crucial difference between stupidity ourselves and simply avoiding the stupidity of bureaucracy. Not time for visual Apparation now, and besides that, I don't have a picture handy. Hold on." Suddenly he is gripping each of them tightly by the upper arm and, before Draco has the chance to protest, the squeezing sensation of Apparation overwhelms him.

He lands on his feet on a dirt road in an unfamiliar place. It isn't London; he can see the stars. Harry stumbles, taking a moment to regain his balance. Draco makes a mental note to teach Harry how to land properly.

"Dillusionment and muffling spells," Waters murmurs softly. Draco mutes the tread of his feet and taps his head with his wand, barely managing not to shudder at the feeling of the Dillusionment Charm spreading.

Waters lights his wand so that they have a point to follow without straining their eyes for the near-invisible shimmer, though the wand light isn't noticeable in the daylight — only if one is looking for it. He gestures toward a small house a short ways off the road. He twists his wand in a gesture they've been taught means _stay close to me_.

It's more than a little bit unsettling, following a tiny light and a faint shimmer toward a small house very probably filled with a man who hates him before knowing him, but Draco shoves the unsettled feeling into a dark corner of his mind and dismisses it as entirely irrelevant.

They are careful as they approach the view of the windows. Draco shifts his breathing pattern to smaller, shallower breaths to lessen even that noise.

Waters looks in the window and then waves his wand in the pattern for _proceed carefully_. Draco and Harry inch up to the window, careful not to collide with one another.

The window displays a view of a small living room done up in an eclectic style, with wall paper that looks like it was chosen by an eighty-year-old woman and a red brick fireplace, comfortable, worn armchairs and a very massive, very plush rug. A desk is shoved up in the corner furthest from the window, absolutely littered with papers.

Two of the seats are occupied.

The first man is seated in the desk chair, head bent over the mess. This, by the look of his hair and he shoulders — the former dark and short, the latter broad — is Herring. The second man is seated in one of the armchairs, facing the hearth. Flames flicker in the fireplace, and from the angle of his head, he appears to be watching them dance. He has the same heavy build as Herring, but his hair is blond shot through with lowlights so dark they are almost brown. Both are turned away from the window.

Draco's eyes skim the entire room, noticing the lack of personal touches and the complete ease with which the second man, the one who isn't Herring, sits. Herring himself is taut with frustration as he grips his hair by the roots.

The flames in the fireplace are high, well-tended. There's a blanket on the couch that's been mended. A plate on the side table beside the chair, nearly clean, fork and knife resting on top of it.

This isn't a hideout, or a temporary residence. It's not the sort of place a person just slips off to when he has need of it. This place is lived it.

The easy assumption is that it belongs to the man in the armchair, and his entirely apparent ease supports this assumption. Still, Draco feels like he's missing something. Something critical.

After a few moments of contemplation, Waters gestures them away from the window and they walk far enough as to be out of sight.

"That's not what I was expecting," Draco comments. "It isn't a hideaway; it's a home."

Waters nods. "I was a bit surprised by that as well."

"I thought you said a man like Herring doesn't have friends," Harry comments.

"And I stand by that statement," Waters says. "Now, tell me why."

"That's what I don't understand, though," Harry replies. "They were entirely at ease with one another, to the point where it ceased to matter that they were both doing separate things. They took comfort in the mere presence of the other — it was evident in the slant of the shoulders. Each was titled slightly toward the other, open. Welcoming, almost. They matter to each other. Fiercely. Not just an associate."

Waters is blinking at him. "Harry, how do you…?"

A bitter smile flickers across Harry's lips as he says, "I learned how to read nonverbal cues very, very well, and very, very quickly."

A flash of understanding, and Waters just nods.

But Harry frowns. "So, taking into account all of that, what makes you think they aren't friends?"

Waters pauses a moment, and Draco can tell that some part of him just likes the dramatic reveal. "They aren't friends. They're brothers."

"Brothers?" Harry asks before even processing. Draco, meanwhile, is digesting and analysing this piece of information and noting that it truly does fit all of the facts.

"But what about the neighbor? Seems like she'd have mentioned him coming and going, doesn't it?"

"Strange relationships, familial ones." Waters sounds almost like he's simply musing to himself, but he's clearly talking about the case. "Much different than any other. The dynamics are simply incomparable. Much more… unconditional. Perhaps the only truly unconditional relationship many people ever have. Family members are the only people you can _not see_ for months and then suddenly pick things back up right where you left off. The only ones where you'll look past a damn lot of things. People get weird about family." He looks momentarily thoughtful. "The neighbor wouldn't have seen him come and go if he _didn't_ come and go. Perhaps they've been fighting."

Draco smirks, and Waters grins at him "You know, don't you Draco?"

Draco merely raises an eyebrow.

And Waters smiles, and he says, "You know that we can use that."


	36. Chapter 36

A note, in case some of you may have forgotten: Waters' first name is Michael. He goes by Mike — to most people, if not to Draco.

Previously: 'And Waters smiles, and he says, "You know that we can use [the fact that the brothers have been fighting]."'

.

Waters looks contemplative, and Draco raises a questioning argument.

Waters sighs. "Trying to decide if it's worth the delay to save myself the later hassle of bureaucracy on my ass for busting in without reinforcements." He grimaces. "Damn, I hate our system sometimes."

After a moment, he exhales deeply and casts a Patronus, murmuring so quickly to it that Draco only catches a few words. _"…flag… name… Herring. Two… experience level… quickly, okay?"_

He flicks his wand and the massive silver lion tosses its head at him and then gallops away. Draco raises an eyebrow at him in silent question.

Waters smiles with a note of pain deep in his blue eyes and says, "He was a Gryffindor. Through and through."

_He_ must refer to Xander, Waters' old partner — who else would his Patronus represent, but the man who died saving him? A Patronus was a protector, and it took the form representative of the person the caster felt safest with. Draco wonders, and not for the first time, whether Waters and Xander were anything more than partners — something about the look in Waters' eyes and the note in his voice when he speaks of the man — but he knows now is not the time to ask.

But apparently he doesn't have to. Waters smiles just a little bit and says, "No."

"No?" Harry asks, confused by the comment seemingly out of the blue.

There is a tinge of humor in Waters voice as he says, "No. Draco was wondering whether Xander and I were ever… romantically involved. And the answer is no. He wasn't inclined that way and neither am I. Doesn't mean he still couldn't be my world." A slight laugh bubbles up. "I… there are a lot of things I wish I could have said to him, _would_ have said to him — that's one of them."

He draws in a deep breath, pulling himself back up to his full height and it's only then that Draco consciously notices that he's been hunching over, curled into himself. "I think he knew, but you know how Gryffindors can be. Sometimes you have to beat them on the head with things before they finally understand." He grins.

"Hey!" Harry protests.

"Come now, Potter. I'm sure even _you_ can figure out that that's true."

They bicker cheerfully for almost a half an hour, until Waters is tapping out a rhythm that Draco thinks might be a piece by Bach on his leg — he can't quite tell without the notes — and even Harry is clearly impatient. Draco's gaze flips down to his hands, but there isn't a tremor visible. He wonders what makes this moment exciting enough, but he doesn't get the chance to ask before six near-simultaneous pops sound.

_Reinforcements._

_Gryffindor _reinforcements, which worries Draco. Of the six, three are Gryffindors, and the other three could be, for all Draco knows.

Longbottom, Finnigan, Thomas. Finnigan and Thomas' training Auror, Elladora Moody. Longbottom's partner, Robert Zumberg, and their training Auror, Amanda Matthews. The names slither out of the depths of his mind, but it worries Draco that there are only sparing details to accompany them. Finnigan and Thomas work well together — Finnigan the fire and Thomas the mediator between Finnigan and the world. Longbottom's incompetency has decreased since Draco last talked to him. Thomas is an evasion specialist. Longbottom specialises in disguise — but if Draco remembers from Hogwarts, he also has an affinity for plants.

But that's it. Zumberg, Moody, and Matthews are all complete wild cards, which Draco finds irksome. How is he supposed to attempt to form any sort of plan if he doesn't know what he's working with.

Waters looks at him with a spark of amusement and Draco can tell his irritation has been duly noted.

"All right, listen up!" Waters calls. "I don't know how much you've been briefed, but the essence of it is that Davis Herring and a man we strongly suspect to be his brother are in that home over there." He jerks a hand over his shoulder at the house. "Herring scared a little girl — traumatised her. Hate crime."

"Pureblood, the girl?" Moody asks.

"Yes, Ella. Pureblood. Here's the thing — according to King, the one thing that can really drive this man into a frenzy is a Pureblood. We've got three." He nods to Draco, then Longbottom, then Elladora.

Draco stashes this for further analysis — after all, Alastor Moody was a Pureblood.

"I think our best bet is for the rest of us to go in, wands blazing–"

"Yeah, you would think that, wouldn't you, Mike?" Matthews murmurs, and then she giggles — a wind-chime giggle.

Waters grins. "Oh, shut up, 'Manda. You know that's not _always _my solution."

"No," she concedes.

"Just for the Waitfield case," puts in Elladora.

"And the Marks case," adds Amanda.

"And the Deter case."

"The Redding case, too."

"And–"

"All right, all right! That's enough!" Waters roars. But he's grinning. "Case, you guys. Little girl. Pressure from up top, too. This has got to be neat and quick, okay?"

"You want neat and quick, you shouldn't go for wands blazing, Mike. You know this," Elladora comments.

"Oh, don't take all the fun out of it, now, Ella!"

She rolls her eyes. "You're taking the fall for this already, Mike. It's your case. Do whatever you want."

"Right. Wands blazing." She rolls her eyes again, but she's smiling. "Harry, stick with me, we'll take the front. Draco, you'll be right behind us, invisible." He turns to Elladora and Amanda, giving them silent permission to sort their own teams.

"Right," Elladora says firmly. "Seamus is going to lead. Dean, I know I don't have to tell you to cover him." Dean nods very seriously. Seamus beams so wide his face looks like it's going to split open. "Seamus, don't you dare even think about leaving his range, all right?" Her gaze is as hard as metal, and Seamus nods somewhat alarmedly.

"Good," she says firmly. "I'll be behind you under a Dillusionment Charm."

Draco — almost absently — notes Dean's hand on Seamus's shoulder and the way they communicate without needing words.

Amanda looks at her trainees. "Longottom, you'll be behind, invisible. Zumberg, you're with me." She has to look a very long way up to talk to either of them, but Zumberg in particular. "Just don't do anything stupid and we should be fine, all right?"

Longbottom grins. "No problem, boss!" Zumberg just smiles.

"And I'm assuming we have the back door," she states.

Waters nods. "Someone will have to seal the side door. 'Manda?" Amanda nods and disappears noiselessly. "Anyone know _Homenum Revelio_ already?"

Both Dean and Harry nod. Waters laughs, nodding to Dean. "Really should have figured that one, shouldn't I? What kind of evasion specialist would you be otherwise?"

Dean smiles a tiny bit, just the corners of his mouth. "A shabby one, I suspect."

"I suspect you're right about that," Waters says wryly, amused. "Harry, then, since I believe Dean when he says it.

Harry closes his eyes, remembering Hermione guiding his wand in the tent, showing him this spell. He'd learned a lot of spells that year, that way. They get fuzzy sometimes. After just a moment, he waves his wand in an intricate but brief pattern and says, "_Homenum Revelio._" His wand points straight at the house.

Two flares pop up over the house — Herring and his brother — and then another, several feet behind it — Amanda.

"Well done, Harry," Waters murmurs softly. Harry beams.

Moments later, Amanda is back among them on silent feet. "No one's getting out that side short of the entire house collapsing around the door."

Waters nods. "Thanks."

Draco taps his head with his wand, feeling for the second time that day the sickeningly cold feeling of a Dillusionment Charm dripping down his back. Beside him, Moody and Longbottom do the same.

"Ready?" Waters asks, facing them all. He gets many nods and a bobbing of the wandlights of the invisible three. "All right, places, everyone! When everyone is in position, we'll go on ten, all right?"

More nods, and the Aurors all slip off in different directions on equally silent feet. They take their positions.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._

Draco loosens his grip on his wand when he notices that he's clutching it.

_Six._

_Five. _

_Four._

He nudges Harry and Harry jumps, but then he turns to face Draco and the stiff tension drains out of his body. Draco smiles — mission accomplished there.

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

BANG. The collective crash of three different doors to one small space being thrown open is loud enough to reverberate off the walls.

"Davis Herring, this is the Aurors! You are under arrest for illegal use of wandlight, defacing of property, and the traumatisation of the mental wellfare of a child. If you come quietly, this will be easier for all of us."


	37. Chapter 37

_Previously: "Davis Herring, this is the Aurors! You are under arrest for illegal use of wandlight, defacing of property, and the traumatisation of the mental welfare of a child. If you come quietly, this will be easier for all of us."_

_._

The brother looks up from the fire in alarm, but Davis is quicker. He bolts up out of his seat, takes a precursory look around the room, notes the three entrances that are covered by Aurors, and dashes for the side door. A somewhat sickening crunch is heard as he collides headlong with the door. He pulls his wand out of his pocket and starts waving it furiously — yet there's a calm to his motions; they're fast but purposeful.

Waters makes a quick gesture with his hand.

Davis attempts to twist the handle and curses when it doesn't work. He jumps a mile in the air when a smooth voice in his ear murmurs, "Somehow, I don't think that's going to work out for you."

He whirls around with a start, just in time to see Draco materialise. His eyes morph from startled calculation to abrupt fury as his eyes flicker over Draco's features. He snarls.

"What are you doing with the Aurors, _Malfoy_?"

Draco has heard his last name spat out like an obscenity. He's heard it dragged through the mud, heard it equated with filth, abused, tarnished. But never once has he ever heard it spat out with that much venom, as though Herring despises him down to his very _soul_, all because of the name he carries.

It hurts. As much as he tries not to let it, it hurts. He's spent his whole life being proud of his name, being proud of where he comes from, and to have his roots so reviled isn't an easy thing.

But he tucks the hurt away into some isolated corner of his mind and he adjusts his grip on his wand. What is he doing her? He's making things right, making amends. Making a _difference_. _Merlin_, it's sentimental but it's _true_.

It isn't what he says, though, because he's never admit to something so _Hufflepuff_.

"I'm taking you down."

He smirks, knowing that his features are something close to intimidating when he smirks. He takes a quick step to the side when he fires off his first spell — a stunner — both to avoid a spell Herring may fire and to give the people behind him a clear shot. Herring block's Draco's stunner, but he can't block all seven of the spells that come rapid-fire after it. A Stunner and a disarming spell both make it through and Herring is on the ground, wand in Draco's hand, snatched out of the air by Seeker's reflexes.

Just like that, it's over. Elladora Moody had covered the brother who now had ropes around his wrists, which, really, explained the seven spells rather than eight. Wateres wraps ropes around Davis' wrists.

Somehow, Draco had expected… more. He'd expected wandfights and a _challenge_, not a smirk and one spell each.

Waters puts a hand and his shoulder and says softly, "They can't all be thrillers, Draco."

"I know that," he says simply.

Waters laughs slightly. "Yeah. You know it logically. You'll learn it truly later."

Draco lets out a huff of breath that is almost a laugh. "Probably."

They take the brothers back to the station, where both of the other groups sign off and return to their own cases — Moody, Finnigan, and Thomas to a case about a woman who was convinced her necklace, a family heirloom, had been stolen, and Matthews, Longbottom, and Zumberg to one about a fight that had broken out in the middle of Diagon Alley.

This leaves Waters, Draco, and Harry to interrogate the brothers. They start with Davis.

Draco and Harry are only half a step behind Waters as they enter the interrogation room. He twirls the chair around and sits on it backwards, gripping the back. Draco leans on the wall on the left of the door, and Harry mimics him on the right.

"Listen, Davis," Waters says in a low tone, but there's a vicious sneer across Herring's face and he hasn't moved his gaze from Draco.

"What's _he_ doing here?"

Waters slaps a hand on the table, drawing Herring's gaze to him. "I'm talking here," he says firmly. "He's here because this is his case, and he has every right to be, and you have no say in the matter, so ignore him."

Herring's gaze shifts back to Draco. "I'm not saying a word with him here." He snarls.

Waters looks at Draco, and Draco inclines his head just a fraction. Waters nods and jerks his head. Without a word, Draco slips out the door. He leans against the wall outside, sucking in a deep breath through his nose.

He remembers Waters saying that a good team was about balance, that it was good that he and Harry are so different. He didn't know at the time that it would be an inspirational phrase, but in a way it is, because he finds himself involuntarily clinging to it.

He knew from the beginning that becoming an Auror with his past wasn't going to be easy. He hadn't imagined this, though: being actually excluded from a pivotal point in the case, just because of who he is. Who he isn't.

Draco refuses to be ashamed of his heritage. He refuses to be ashamed of where he comes from. He is ashamed of the things he's done, the things his family has done, but he is not ashamed of his lineage. Being Pureblood didn't make them choose the things they did.

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and sighs. He's really sick of shame.

The door clicks as it opens and shuts.

"Hey." Harry's voice is soft.

Draco merely nods in return, then he looks up and raises an eyebrow in question. Harry shrugs. "He didn't need me. Minute you left, Herring started singing like a canary." He laughs slightly. "There's irony in that somewhere."

"Still could've learned from it," Draco comments, ignoring Harry's terrible attempt at a pun.

Harry's lips twist up into a wry smile. "I made a decision." He walks around Draco and leans against the wall next to him.

Draco knows that Harry wants him to ask, so he doesn't. They slouch in silence, staring at the wall opposite. After a moment, Harry says, "Why don't they understand?" His voice is small.

Draco looks at him. "Understand what?"

Harry blows out a breath, and then says, "Understand that they're just perpetuating the cycle. Understand that bigotry in protest of bigotry is still bigotry. Understand that all prejudice does is create hatred." He says all of this to the wall, his face genuinely perplexed.

Draco turns his head forward again. "It's a defence mechanism, I suppose. People prejudge because they have to, because it's how they decide who's trustworthy and who to steer clear of. Some people just… take it too far."

Draco can feel Harry glance at him. "I wish… I wish people would just take a moment and get to know someone before deciding what their life is like."

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

A sigh. Harry's gaze shifts back to the wall. "I wasn't talking about me, Draco — even though it's true. I was talking about _you_. I'm not stupid, you know, and I'm not deaf. I hear what they say about you. They say you aren't fit to be an Auror, aren't fit for anything but Azkaban. They say you _hoodwinked_ me into testifying for you." He shakes his head, staring at the floor. "It makes me absolutely furious. If they would just bother to _look_, they'd see you're trying!" His voice has risen, and his hands are balled into fists. He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep, measured breath. He lets it out slowly, and then pulls in another. Slowly, his hands relax. "Sorry," he murmurs in an almost-whisper. "Sorry."

Draco doesn't say anything. He's still trying to digest that. Harry is angry, not because of the affront to _himself_, but because of the affront to _Draco_. Angry because of the disrespect and disdain Draco himself is entirely accustomed to by now.

After a moment, Harry speaks again. "It makes me furious that people are so proud of how they themselves have improved since when they were kids, but they refuse to believe that the people they hate could have grown up too." His voice is soft this time, his tone carefully under control, but the undertone of rage is still evident. "It's hypocritical."

Eventually, Draco has gathered himself enough to speak, but even he is slightly surprised when what pops out of his mouth is, "Why do you care what they say about me anyway?"

He glances at Harry and Harry looks at him and for the first time in this entire conversation their eyes meet. Harry takes a breath and then says, "Because you matter to me." He holds Draco's eyes for another instant and then his gaze shifts back to his feet.

Draco isn't really sure what to say to that.


	38. Chapter 38

300 REVIEWS YOU GUYS I LOVE YOU ALL. Even the anon who reviewed in Swedish. Which made me giggle.

(also, to my Swedish guest — no, Draco is probably not going to start smoking, if Google translated that right… and I have no clue how many chapters there will be)

Thanks to my dearest Sam, for letting me bounce some ideas off her for this chapter.

The Outtake will continue into the next chapter. I've got plans for it.

_Previously: "Harry takes a breath and then says, "Because you matter to me." He holds Draco's eyes for another instant and then his gaze shifts back to his feet. / Draco isn't really sure what to say to that."_

_._

_[outtake –– Harry James Potter]_

Harry looks determinedly at his shoes, but he can see Draco's expression faintly in his peripheral vision. He watches it flicker through more emotions that Harry has ever seen the aristocratic features display in a lifetime, all in the space of a few moments — shock, confusion, disbelief, and then something that might possibly be pleased — before closing off completely.

"Oh, don't," Harry says.

Draco frowns, allowing annoyance to show through — probably because annoyance is acceptable, Harry thinks. "Don't what?"

"Don't do that."

"Do… what?"

"That. That thing you always do — you're shutting yourself off. Shutting down. Don't."

"Potter, I–"

"That's not any better! Now you're distancing yourself. Merlin, Draco, emotions aren't a bad thing, okay?"

Because that, Harry realises, is a large part of what it is. Draco is _afraid_ to feel. Afraid to care, because caring can hurt.

"_Harry_, then! Merlin, does it _matter_ what I call you? Either way, I'm just trying to say that I need _time_, all right? I need _time_ to process these sorts of things," Draco snaps.

Something that might be surprise flickers across Draco's face as Harry stares at him. He seems surprised that the words came out of his mouth. Harry barely keeps himself from recoiling from the acid in the words, and Draco suddenly seems to find the floor tile pattern far more intriguing than it previously was.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmurs softly. And he is. Sorry for pushing Draco, sorry for forgetting that they are different, that they process things differently. Harry can process emotional information in an instant but sometimes takes time on strategic things — Harry has seen Draco digest tactical information in seconds, but apparently it takes him a while to process emotional things.

He's reminded of Waters saying that their differences were good, that they balanced each other. He remembers the phrase, "Opposites attract."

He makes a decision.

Waters walks out of the interrogation room.

"Went just like King said the first time — sang like a canary. Seemed _proud_. Damn, I hate bigots." He sighs. "Got enough to put him away for a long while. We were right about him having another target, too." A small smile flickers across his lips. "There's some irony in who."

Draco raises an eyebrow in question, and Waters grins. "You, Draco."

Draco blinks. Waters nods. "Yup. Claims he knows how to get through your wards. Don't know how, but you might want to get that looked into, just in case."

Draco merely nods. Harry is almost furious at how calmly Draco takes the news that he was the next target of a psycho.

"The brother, then?"

Both Harry and Draco nod. "Did Herring say anything about the brother's involvement?" Draco asks as he falls into step next to Waters as they walk to the other interrogation room.

"Yes, but… it was weird," Waters says slowly, stopping outside the door. "It was… I don't know quite how to explain it. Protective, I guess. He insisted several times that his brother — Jesse, his name is — wasn't involved at all, didn't know anything, was just taking him in because he asked. Weird part was, he told me all of that, and I hadn't even asked about Jesse."

He frowns thoughtfully. "Thing is, he's not a crap liar. Can't be. Works in the service industry, he interacts with people he despises all the time. He's good enough to bluff his way through those interactions without arousing a single suspicion, but he can't lie to save his life? No, it doesn't make any sense. It just isn't logical."

"Maybe he's a good enough liar that he told the truth and made it look like a bad lie, knowing you'd catch it? Maybe he wants to take Jesse down with him?"

Waters shakes his head at Draco's suggestion. "No, I don't think so. You heard Harry describe their body language. They were perfectly at ease with one another. They meant something to one another. In some ways I think Jesse may have been the only person that Davis actually cared about. I don't think he'd be so petty."

"Panic, then," Harry puts in. "Panic… it can blind people to logic. Maybe he cares enough that the thought of Jesse in trouble was enough to make him lose his ability to think logically about it?"

Waters looks contemplative at this. "While I don't like to say probable, it's certainly more likely than the alternative, I suppose." He purses his lips. "Not enough information to truly tell, I don't think. Guess we'll just see what Jesse says and go from there."

Draco and Harry both nod at the proposed course, and Waters leads the way into the interrogation room.

"Jesse Herring–"

"It's, ah, Jesse Slater, actually," the man at the table interrupts. The blonde leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Davis is my half-brother," he explains at Harry's puzzled expression. He laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them carelessly. "What am I doing here?" he asks, and there's a sort of insolence to his voice.

"Being interrogated on suspicion of conspiracy to property damage." Waters answers flatly and promptly.

Jesse shakes his head. "You don't have anything on me. My brother was staying at my house for a bit; that's not a crime. I can't have helped him, obviously, so the only thing that's even still a maybe — and an awfully big maybe it is — is that I might have known, and I'm not even sure that's severe enough to warrant prosecution."

"Excuse me, but why, exactly, is that obvious?" Waters asks.

Jesse laughs. "You people don't do your research, do you? Jesse's half-blood. On his dad's side. I'm his half-brother — on our _mum's_ side. I'm Muggle."

"So instead of conspiracy to property damage, we have you both on blatant disregard for the Statute of Secrecy? Brilliant, that's a longer sentence anyway."

Laughing again, Jesse says, "Try again, old man. I've got a sealed exemption. Growing up with Davy, it was pretty hard not to realise magic existed."

Waters is becoming visibly more frustrated by the minute — to Harry, at least, who knows the man's tics by now. He suspects that the average person wouldn't notice any of the signs.

Waters nods to both of them, gesturing with his head to the door. All three stand, leaving Jesse and his smug smile behind them. The door slams a bit when Waters closes it, and then suddenly the ex-Ravenclaw throws his fist into the opposite wall.

"Dammit!" he swears. "I hate cases like this. Hate them." He shakes his hand gingerly, appearing to debate healing it. He decides not to.

"Why?" Harry asks carefully.

"Because the smug bastard is right, that's why! Because there isn't a thing we can do to touch him, despite knowing that he's involved. We can't touch him, and he knows that damn well."

He closes his eyes and steadies himself. "It's not a lesson I liked learning, and it's not one I like to teach, and it damn well sucks that you have to learn it on your first proper case, but… look, sometimes, we lose. This isn't a storybook. Good doesn't always triumph in the end. And it sucks. Losing is never fun. But it happens, and there isn't much we can do about it."

"So, what? That's it? You're just giving up, just like that?" Harry asks. He can't believe this, won't accept it.

"It's not giving up, Harry. It's knowing when you've already lost."

"But we haven't lost yet! We haven't even investigated Jesse at all!"

Waters sighs. "Look, Harry. Jesse is a Muggle. Muggles… don't get sentenced in wizarding courts. It doesn't happen. Even if they're Muggles that know about magic, they're still Muggles. I don't know where the rule stems from, or if it's even a technical law or just a tradition, but you can't sentence a Muggle for a wizarding crime."

"What d'you do, then?"

"You try them in a Muggle court. Which is damn hard to manage, since you can't show Pensieve memories, can't give wand evidence, have to censor your every word for magical terminology. I've never once seen a sentence go through." He sighs again. "It's… entirely inane. But it's our system."

"So that's it, then? He just walks?"

"That's it."

"That's idiotic."

"Yes."

"Someone needs to fix this system."

"You go right ahead. Might as well do it now, while they're already rebuilding the Ministry from the ground up."

And Harry files this information for further consideration when he's less busy sorting out his entire life.


	39. Chapter 39

_Previously: "And Harry files this information for further consideration when he's less busy sorting out his entire life."_

_._

_[outtake –– Harry James Potter –– continued]_

He takes a deep breath, standing outside the Burrow. He reminds himself that he's made his decision, reminds himself that his indecisiveness is to the point of cruel.

He knocks on the door.

Ginny opens it, and her immediate shock is evident in her eyes. "Harry?"

Harry rubs the back of his neck. "Er, hello, Ginny."

She's dressed up a bit, and her fiery hair is pulled back, only a few loose curls tumbling down. She blushes a bit, and then steps back. "Come on in."

Harry nods, stepping inside. "Look, Ginny, I wanted to talk to you," he says, at precisely the same time Ginny says,

"Harry, I actually wanted a word with you."

Both of them laugh, but it's slightly awkward, stilted, and Harry fervently misses the days when Ginny was easy and effortless to talk to. "Go ahead," he says.

"You could go first, if you like." It's less an offer and more a hope, but Harry shakes his head.

"Go ahead, Ginny."

She bites her bottom lip and says instead, "Maybe we ought to sit?"

Harry nods, sitting on the couch in the living room. She sits on the chair, bracing her elbows on her knees, leaning toward him. She sighs.

"Harry, look. I love you. I will never stop loving you. You were my first crush, the one I thought I would wait forever for, but…" she trails off. "Some things aren't meant to last forever," she says carefully. "And that first fairytale prince is so rarely the one in the end. Life doesn't work that way. And I… I can't keep waiting forever."

"I know, Ginny, and I'm so sorry. I had… a lot of things to sort out, and a lot of things to think about."

"I know you did. And I get that. But, Harry, look… It's just…" she sighs again. "There's not an easy way to say this, so I suppose forward is best. Harry, I… I met someone. And I like him. And he's not keeping me in limbo."

And Harry smiles softly. "Good," he says. "I'm happy for you."

Her eyes snap up to meet his. "You aren't… upset?"

Harry laughs. "No, I'm not upset. I couldn't expect you to wait for me forever. Besides–" he shrugs "–that was what I wanted to talk to you about. I've been thinking about it, and, well… I love you, I do. Just… you're like a little sister to me."

Ginny nods. "I think some part of me has always known that." She grins cheekily. "Besides, I read the papers. I've seen the rumours."

Harry frowns. He hasn't bothered to properly read a _Prophet_ since his training properly started. "What rumours?"

Her eyes sparkle with mirth — mirth he's glad he hasn't quenched. "You mean you don't know?"

Harry shakes his head. "What?"

She giggles. "The papers can't seem to decide whether you and Malfoy are shagging or likely to throttle one another at any moment. Either way, they're awfully concerned about your private life, as usual." Ginny grins. "That's something I can't say I'll miss."

"Ginny, you play Quidditch for a living. They're just as much in your personal life as mine," Harry points out.

She shrugs, then counters, "Not just as much. Never just as much. You're the Slayer of Voldemort — anything you do is front page news."

Harry sighs. "Don't I know it best of all."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Harry Potter! _So_? So what's _really_ going on between you and Malfoy? Ron's been fuming about it, so I know you haven't offed the man, but what's the scoop?"

Harry can feel his face heating up, and he curses it as Ginny squeals. "That's a blush! _That_ is a _definite blush_! So there _is_ something there!"

"No!" Harry says, but even to himself it sounds too defensive. "I mean, no. It's not… no, Ginny. It's not like that."

She looks at him piercingly. "I said it before, and I'll say it again. You're happier. And it's not being an Auror that does that. You've always had a purpose. No." She leans even farther forward. "It's not like that, but you want it to be, don't you?"

Harry takes her question as seriously as she means it. He thinks about Draco, thinks about the way he feels around the man — thinks about wanting to make everything better, about wanting to pull the blonde into his arms and shield him from the world, and really, doesn't that answer it already? He thinks about the perfect mask Draco has built to keep everyone else out, the way, when the mask slips, Harry sees Draco at his most vulnerable and thinks that it's then that he's most beautiful.

"I don't dare mess anything up," he says softly. "Not when I've worked so hard to get where I am. I sometimes feel like I'm building with spun glass. One wrong move, Ginny, just one, and the whole thing will shatter."

"No one ever said love was supposed to be easy, Harry. They just said it would be worth it."

He looks up at her, sees her looking at him warmly, and he says, "God, Ginny, you're fantastic, do you know that?"

She grins. "'Course I do. Took you a bit to figure out, though, didn't it?"

He laughs, but then he sobers. "Er, Ginny, is there any way you could, er, not tell Ron just yet? Only… he sort of… blew up when I told him Draco was a decent enough bloke, and I think perhaps it's just best to… _ease_ him into these sorts of things."

Ginny winces, and then pats Harry's shoulder sympathetically. "Of course. Consider my lips sealed."

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. "You're a wonder."

Ginny laughs. "Realising that a bit late, aren't you, Harry?"

Harry chuckles. "Ah, c'mon. I've always known that."

She smiles and ducks her head, the few loose strands of her hair swinging front of her face. Mostly relieved that the awkwardness is over, Harry makes a joke and then asks about Ginny's new interest. She beams and talks about some fellow Quidditch player that Harry's never heard of — a last minute replacement Seeker for a team that'd lost their starter when she broke seven bones in her hand and tore up the muscle too badly to be mended. Ginny's cheer when she talks about how the delicate process of mending precision muscles takes time leaves Harry caught halfway between horror and amusement, but he smiles.

She's happy. It's exactly like she says about him; she's happy. She's smiling freely and talking animatedly and her tone of voices speaks almost more than her words do.

And he's glad for it. He cares about her enough that he truly does want her to be happy, and he's glad that she can be happy without him.

She is a phase of his life. She is his best friend's little sister, his ex-girlfriend, and she will never not matter. But she doesn't matter as much as she used to, and he is just glad that he doesn't matter as much to her as he used to, because it is precisely when people don't matter equally that people get hurt. And he doesn't want to hurt her — not least because she has six brothers that could probably destroy him, if she'd let them.

She asks about his case and he talks too much about Draco and not enough about the case and the knowing look in her eyes makes him duck his head to hide the blush he knows is growing. Molly comes in the room when Harry is laughing harder than he has in a long time at something Ginny's said and she smiles at them, and Ginny shakes her head and Molly smiles and without anything else being said they all know she knows.

"Harry, dear, you'll stay for dinner, won't you?" is all she says. "You're so thin."

Harry grins, laughs. "Of course I will, Mrs. Weasley. He doesn't mention that he's spent his whole life sliding just inside the line for unhealthily underweight for his height group, and he's finally just now approaching normal. He never mentions that, because Mrs. Weasley is never truly happy unless she's telling someone he's too thin.

So he stays for dinner and he watches the darkness in George's eyes and makes a note to visit the shop sometime. He watches Ron and Hermione laugh quietly with each other at things no one else can hear and he smiles, because he has always known they were meant to be. He watches Ginny laugh, watches Mrs. Weasley watch her children laugh and smile fondly, watches Mr. Weasley watch Mrs. Weasley watching everyone else laughing and smile himself. And Harry knows that the Weasleys will always be his family, no matter what the law or the bloodlines say, and he doesn't need to be with Ginny for that to be true. He feels at home here. Always.


	40. Chapter 40

_Previously: "And Harry knows that the Weasleys will always be his family, no matter what the law or the bloodlines say, and he doesn't need to be with Ginny for that to be true. He feels at home here. Always."_

_._

"As you all know, this year's trainees were a bit… different." The man in the middle of the stage clasps his hands behind his back. "Because of a severe depletion in our forces due to unfortunate circumstances, we were forced to lower our standards for admission into the Auror training program. We were forced to streamline training, compressing three years of knowledge and experience into one." He stops pacing and snaps to face the crowd. "However," he says abruptly. "I am very pleased to say that, contrary to our expectations, these measures did not decrease the quality of Aurors produced. If anything, I am pleased to introduced to you the best group of first year Aurors I have seen in many years." He gestures to the trainees — who will not be trainees for much longer at all — standing in a line at attention behind him.

"Never have I seen an entire group collectively work so hard as these men and women right here did in the past year. They made up their minds to learn, to succeed, and learn and succeed they did." He smiles. "But I could wax poetic about this for far longer than they've given me to talk, and you didn't come here to listen to me. Each Auror pair will we introduced by their training Auror and granted full Auror status. First up, we have Auror Wilma Robinson."

He nods gracefully to a greying woman with an unexpected spring in her step and slips off the stage left. The line of trainees-who-are-not-trainees follows him, as do all of Aurors besides Wilma, who begins to speak.

Draco is distracted from her words by Harry's intense gaze, though.

"What is it, Potter?" he asks.

Harry looks at him, and Draco cannot read his expression — which makes him simultaneously frustrated and triumphant. Clearly the lessons are finally starting to pay off. "You aren't as subtle as you think you are, Draco," he says softly.

Draco just raises an eyebrow in question and doesn't deign to respond verbally. Harry smirks a bit. After a few moments, Harry's eyes seem to light up and he says, "I've just remembered something I've got to do. I'll be right back!" His voice is just a hair too cheerful.

"Don't be stupid, Potter; we're up in no more than twenty minutes! Now is not the time to be running errands."

"Now's _exactly _the time to be running errands." Harry grins cheekily at him and then dashes off, leaving Draco mentally gaping at him. He wonders why he ever taught Harry not to wear his thoughts out on his sleeve. _I've created a monster_, he thinks ruefully, and then he shrugs mentally and reclines against the wall, careful not to crease the red Auror dress robes.

Fifteen minutes later, Elladora Moody is speaking fervently about Finnigan and Thomas and the teamwork between them and Potter still has not returned. Though his exterior remains calm, inside Draco is beginning to worry.

He knows the ceremony is just a formality. He knows the real end to their training and start to their careers was the paper they signed the day before. He knows that, technically, Harry doesn't _have _to be here. But this is the culmination of a year of work. It's fighting through rivalry and fights and learning that not every story has a happy ending. It's learning that as Aurors they do what they can and forget what they cannot. It's a year of mental discipline lessons and long nights over files sprawled out over a dining room table — whichever dining room table was closest at the time. It's keying his old enemy into his wards and realising as he did so that this moment was _significant_. It's late nights and covert missions and wands-blazing busts. This moment is all of that, and to miss that for an errand?

But just as Elladora hugs both Seamus and Dean, shakes their hands, and hands them their certificates, Harry comes dashing down the hallway, attempting to straighten his robes as he does so. Draco scowls and shifts Harry's hands aside, lining up the shoulders of his dress uniform and smoothing down the front. After a moment he sighs and pulls out his wand, casting a straightening charm. "I do hope that was important," he mutters as they turn to face the stage.

Harry smiles. "It was," he murmurs.

"And it is my pleasure," Elladora says, "to introduce to you my close personal friend and a man I greatly respect, Mike Waters, and his trainees, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."

The applause as they walk out onto the stage is absolutely deafening, but Draco is by no means naïve. They aren't applauding for him.

Waters stands in between the two of them and puts one hand on each of their shoulders. He starts talking, but Draco is frozen, staring at the audience.

Slowly, he shifts his gaze to face Harry, who is beaming at him, watching his face. Draco raises both eyebrows. _You did this_.

Harry's grin just grows. _Who else?_

Draco nods minutely. _Thank you._

He turns back to face her. She sits in the front row with her hands placed steadily in her lap. Her hair has been put up and she is dressed in semi-formal robes. Most noticeable of all, though, she is smiling softly at him. He cannot help but smile back.

It is the first time since the Death Eater trials that he has seen her out of the house. It is the first time in too long that he has seen her smile.

He thinks about Harry's comment, _"You aren't as subtle as you think you are,"_ and he knows he must have been scanning the crowd earlier. Stupid. Sentimental. Hopeless hoping. Foolish. Human.

He tunes into what Waters is saying just as he says, "…two of the most gifted men I have ever had the pleasure of working with. But the thing about these two is, as well as they each work separately, and very exceptionally well that is, it is what they can do together that I'm looking forward to seeing." He grins slightly. "In a lot of ways, over the course of this year, these men have reminded me of myself and the best partner I've ever had, so I know what this looks like from the inside. And it's scary. To be so completely dependent upon another person is terrifying — but it's worth it, because the whole is far greater than the sum of the parts. A partnership like this… you only get one shot at it, and these two were lucky enough to get it right on the first try. Sure, they fought it." He shoots a grin at Draco. "One harder than the other."

Draco watches his mother's shoulders shake with laughter and he cannot help but smile.

"But the thing is," Waters continues, "there are some things you can't fight forever. I have seen these men learn and grow. I have seen them figure out the depths of humanity and the limits of their own natures. I have seem them learn hard lessons and easy ones. But I think the most valuable thing they learned this year was how to trust each other. They were already clever when I got them. Now they're clever together, and that is what will make them undefeatable. So, with that, it is my great pleasure to award certificates of full Auror status to Aurors Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter."

He pulls the rolls of parchment out of his robe pocket amidst another round of loud applause, passing one to Draco and the other to Harry. "I have utmost faith in the both of you," he says just loud enough for them to hear over the applause. "And you know where my office is if you ever, _ever _need anything."

He shakes first Harry's hand, then Draco's, and then both of them exit stage left. As Waters introduces Zeus Dearborn, Draco turns to Harry. "How did you…?" He trails off, not entirely sure how to end the sentence.

Harry smiles, and he shrugs. "There's about one thing in the world that matters to her anymore, I think," he says softly. "And I used that."

Draco raises an eyebrow and Harry laughs. "You, idiot! She cares about you!"

Draco's mouth quirks up and then straightens as he sobers, looking at Harry very intently. "Thank you," he says carefully. "I know I do not have to tell you what this… means to me."

Harry gapes at him. Draco raises an eyebrow in question.

"You… You just… You've never thanked me before!" Harry says. "Not once."

Draco smirks ever-so-slightly. "Haven't you learned by now, Potter? I'm full of surprises."


	41. Chapter 41

_Warning: This chapter gets a bit… bloody._

_I swear I have no clue where these are going until I start writing. _

_Previously: 'Draco smirks ever-so-slightly. "Haven't you learned by now, Potter? I'm full of surprises."'_

_._

Draco slips off his cloak and goes to hang it on the peg in their office — musing as he does so that that's a strange, foreign turn of phrase: _their office_. They have an _office_, not just a couple of desks stuck in the corner of Waters' office. A proper office, with two proper desks and trays and organisers and pegs for cloaks. Not a big office, no, not as first year Aurors, but an office that is _theirs_, nonetheless. It's a strange feeling, but a pleasant one — one of progress, of movement upward. He smiles slightly.

Before he can manage to hang the cloak properly, though, Harry says, "You really needn't bother. We've got a case." He stands, gesturing with the file he must've found on his desk when he walked in.

Their first solo case. A thrum of something that might be excitement shoots through Draco and he wonders how long it will be until the novelty of promotion beyond Trainee status wears off.

Harry's face is grim as Draco slides his cloak back on and takes the file. Harry plucks his own cloak off the peg and waves the lights off absentmindedly. "Man found dead this morning. Someone severed an artery with a Cutting Curse — made for quite a… gory scene," he says soberly. Draco flips through the file, noting from the page of notes that the man is still unidentified — wizard, though, as he still had his wand on him. Gory, he finds, is a somewhat apt description of the scene. It's one of the worst they've seen in their year, and he thanks Merlin for that.

He's learned enough about human beings in the last year to know why — arteries, apparently, have stronger blood flow, because they're where it's still going away from the heart. By the time it gets to the veins it's slowed down a bit.

Muggles, apparently, all got this sort of education, though Draco still cannot fathom why. What if one were to become an accountant or something of the sort? Waters told him it was about knowing things for knowledge's sake, not for their usefulness — after all, he'd said, what does a shopkeeper need with Herbology?

Draco hadn't had an answer, but he's still not sure why in Merlin's name a man who deals nothing with the body would need to know about such violent things as blood.

He flips through to the last photo and he knows his eyes widen. "I know this man," he says carefully. "His name is Phineas Burke. He was an… associate… of my father's. How have they not yet identified him?"

Harry looks up at him, startled, but then something resembling mirth enters his eyes. "I suspect the Auror that took the call wasn't a pure-blood."

The corner of Draco's mouth twitches. "I suppose so."

"Draco," Harry asks as they step into the elevator. "How do wizards identify bodies? That is, when they don't know?"

Harry and Draco have only worked three cases where the victim was dead, and in all of those he or she was found by someone who knew the victim, someone who could identify him or her.

Draco shrugs a bit. "I suspect in this case they'd have taken the wand to Ollivander. He remembers every wand he's ever sold; he'd know whose it is. Beyond that… I'm not actually certain. I know magical signature is unique, but I'm don't know whether or not that lingers after death."

A year ago, the words wouldn't have come out of his mouth. He wouldn't admit a lack of knowledge to Potter, an enemy. But Harry isn't an enemy anymore. He's an ally, a partner, and Draco has found that trying to pretend he knows things he doesn't is effective at preserving his pride and not so effective at solving cases, and while that still doesn't mean it's easy, it does at least mean that it's possible for him to admit.

"Why?" he asks, suddenly curious. "How do Muggles do it?"

Harry shrugs. "Something called DNA. Don't know much about the details of it, but I do know that everyone's got it, and everyone's different, so they can match it." He shrugs again. "Aunt Petunia liked to watch crime shows. I'm not sure how accurate they were; I never really trust things I see on the telly to be entirely scientific. They need a piece of blood or hair or skin or something like that, a piece of you."

Draco wrinkles his face. "That's somewhat disturbing, you know."

Harry shrugs again. "Wizards put hair in potions and then drink it. I can't say that that's any less disturbing — frankly, I think it's more so."

Draco tips his head, conceding the point. "I do wish you'd stop shrugging, though. It's so… plebeian."

Harry laughs. "You do realise that that isn't an insult, don't you, Draco? Not to me, at least."

Draco tips his chin up haughtily just as the elevator stops. "Yes, well, that isn't _my_ fault that you don't know what's proper."

Harry rolls his eyes, still chuckling a bit as they step out into the Atrium. "We're horrid at decorum, d'you know that?"

Draco lifts an eyebrow at him. "I have no idea why in Merlin's name you would use the word _we_ there._ I_ happen to be perfectly excellent at maintaining decorum, as you well know."

"Oh, yes, well. On the outside. Come on, Draco. We all know you're laughing on the inside." He smirks. "627 Market Lane. Know it?"

Draco nods, and Harry takes his elbow, relaxing instead of tensing. Draco nods approvingly and they pop out of existence.

Draco watches Harry land steadily and smiles a bit on the inside. It took about two weeks of randomly Apparating Harry without warning, but the man had finally learned how to land smoothly and immediately ready for any situation.

"627 Market Lane." He nods at the house. "Burke lived here. I've only seen it once, and I've not been inside — Father was stopping by to collect something, I don't know what, and he had me wait there." He points to the bench underneath the streetlamp two houses down. Not visible from 627. Why Lucius hadn't wanted Burke to see him, Draco has never known.

He flips the file in his hands open. "Neighbor found him, then?"

Harry nods. "He was trying to collect on a loan Burke had borrowed some time prior. Knocked on the door to no response, got a bit angry. Said Burke doesn't go out much, so he figured the man was just trying to avoid him."

"Muggle?"

"I think so. File doesn't quite specify, does it?"

Draco shakes his head in reply. "How exactly did a Muggle manage to break down his door?"

"Well, he can't exactly have had Muggle wards, can he? Not in this neighborhood."

Draco looks at the house, at the door hanging half off it's hinges. "That door is solid oak. Expensive, and more importantly, heavy."

Harry shrugs — unabashedly, which makes Draco want to grin and reprimand him at the same time. "Maybe the hinge was faulty?"

They've been getting closer as they speak, and Draco shakes his head as he catches sight of the neighbor fidgeting in the entryway. "I'm not sure it had to be. "

The man is over six feet tall and probably broader across the shoulders than Harry and Draco combined. The sleeves on his T-shirt look displeased to be restraining his biceps.

"That answers that question then, I suppose," Harry says flatly. Draco nods, unable to resist a wry twist of his lips.

"That it does," he murmurs as they step through the door. "That it does."

Finnigan is standing with the man in the entryway — apparently they've pulled first response this shift, but they must be about to go off shift, or they'd have worked the case themselves.

"Hey, Seamus," Harry says. Draco nods at him. Finnigan grimaces in reply.

"Better you than me on this one, I'd say. Dean's through there. I…" He shudders, which Draco takes to mean that Finnigan couldn't handle the mess. He's scornful, until he steps through the doorway that Finnigan's gestured to.

Far worse in person than in pictures, as usual, as Draco had expected, but still, he hadn't been expecting this. Dean looks up from where he's kneeling, inspecting the body. He nods at them, his face carefully impassive — but only just. Draco is actually mildly impressed.

"Carotid artery is always… forceful," he says soberly. "But this…" He trails off, but he doesn't need to finish the sentence. He gets up and carefully steps around the patterns on the floor, shaking his head as he does so. "I'm not certain I want to sleep tonight." He doesn't have to elaborate on why.

"Off shift?" Harry asks softly.

Dean glances at his wristwatch and then nods heavily. "Yes. Thank God for that." He follows them into the entryway, them to interview the neighbor who found the body — the six foot plus ox is trembling like a leaf in the wind — and him to join his partner and leave. Harry sighs, and Draco empathises with the sentiment. It's going to be a long shift.


	42. Chapter 42

_As seems to be becoming the usual, thanks go out to Sam for being my idea rubber wall. She's fabulous for bouncing things off of :)_

_Also thanks to Kelly for a bit of prompt last minute help on some questions._

_This is not what I was expecting to happen, but the fallout is going to be fun, so I'm going with it :)_

_Previously: "It's going to be a long shift."_

_._

And so it is. When they spell out at the end of the day, Draco notes the exhausted slump of Harry's shoulders and the way his own neck protests at the task of keeping his head upright and he thanks Merlin that they have a later shift the next day. He raises an eyebrow at Harry, who yawns so wide his jaw cracks.

"Sleep?" he questions. Harry grimaces a bit.

"Shower first, I think."

Draco nods in understanding. In a lot of ways, he thinks, he has an advantage over Harry. Not only is Harry a Gryffindor who feels things very deeply, who has _compassion_ for strangers, he also never became acclimatised to senseless violence the way Draco did. Not that he didn't see violence, didn't see death — he did. But he never really saw violence for violence's sake, the way Draco did. It was never particularly a part of his daily routine: the torture, the screams, the blood, the bodies. Draco still has nightmares, some nights. Still wakes up screaming on occasion. Still wonders if perhaps an Obliviate wouldn't be better than the memories — but he knows better. He knows that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. He knows that it is the pain of remembering that will be their deterrent; it is the pain of remembering that will prevent this from happening again while their generation still lives. It is the pain of remembering that is their teacher.

Draco remembers the first time he'd seen a man killed in front of him, how he'd felt. Tainted. Stained. He'd sat in the shower and let the water wash everything away for over a half an hour. It hadn't helped. Doesn't help.

He glances at Harry, sees the weariness in his eyes and the shadows beneath them, and he almost. _almost_, says something. But then the moment is gone. Harry nods wearily and Disapparates.

Draco isn't far behind him.

.

He tries to sleep after scrubbing his hands dry and changing out of his stained clothing. His body is weary, but his mind won't stop whirring. It's been a long time since sympathy has kept him up at night, but there's something in the combination of having known Burke beforehand and the sheer brutality of it. He tosses and turns for too long before finally giving up and getting up. He wraps a dressing gown around himself and treads on silent feet through the hallway.

He pushes the door to his mother's room open quietly and then smiles at the scene. She's curled up on her side, facing the wall, actually asleep. It's been a while since he's seen her face so peaceful.

He closes the door soundlessly and treads on silent feet to the kitchen. He's never been much of a drinker, but he marks this as an exception and pulls out a bottle of firewhiskey and a small glass, pouring himself a measure. He sets the bottle on the island in the middle and seats himself at a barstool. Lazily waving his hand, he activates the latent spellwork in the kitchen and turns the lights on dimly.

He picks the glass up with his fingertips and swirls it around in circles without actually drinking it. He's not convinced he wants to. He's seen too many people fall victim to vices. He's sworn to himself more than once that he won't be one of them.

Not that Draco honestly believes that he would fall victim to an alcohol addiction. He has mental control and tenacity as unyielding as iron.

Still, he stares at the amber liquid instead of swallowing it.

And then, abruptly — for all he knows, it could be minutes or hours later — he feels the trickle down his spine that means someone has crossed his wards. Considering how few people have access and which one is likely to be sleepless tonight, Draco doesn't really bother to lift his head when the door creaks slightly. "Kitchen," he calls softly.

He listens to the tread of steps and barely picks up the transition from the rug in the entryway to the hardwood of the hallway into the kitchen. He almost smiles at the lack of sound, but his lips don't move.

"You couldn't sleep either?" Harry's voice is low, but still too-loud in the silent kitchen.

Draco just shakes his head and slips off the stool. He fetches a second glass from the cupboard and pours Harry a measure of firewhiskey, pushing it across the counter to him. Harry slides onto the barstool directly across from Draco as Draco reclaims his seat.

Harry takes a small swallow of the firewhiskey. Draco half expects him to cough it back up, but it goes down smoothly, which has Draco raising an eyebrow. Harry just shrugs. "I shared a common room with Fred and George; you think I've never had firewhiskey before?"

A small twist of the lips is Draco's only response. Harry takes the last half-swallow of his shot and then frowns, furrowing his eyebrows at Draco's full measure and the nearly full bottle.

"How long have you been sitting here?"

"Too long," is Draco's reply. As comfortable as he may be with Harry, he still doesn't particularly like to admit when there are things he doesn't know. It's just an ingrained part of his personality, his pride.

"So are you planning on drinking that, or just staring at it?"

Draco purses his lips, looking contemplatively at the glass. "I don't think I've decided yet," he says eventually.

Harry smiles, but not with his eyes. "Not much of a drowning your sorrows sort?" Draco shakes his head and Harry nods. "I wouldn't have thought so. You're too… strict, for that."

Draco almost laughs at how eerily similar it is to his own thoughts earlier. "I don't need it."

"No. But drinking a shot now and then isn't admitting to weakness, Draco. It's using what you've got in front of you — wisely."

And there are times when Draco thinks he's taught Harry too well — times like this, when Harry can read _him _like words on a page. It's unnerving. He's not even sure he'd consciously come to the realisation that he thought of it as weakness, but Harry pinned it down and put it into words in seconds.

Draco meets Harry's eyes very deliberately for a few moments, and then he drains the shot in one swallow and fills both of them back up. And he can tell that Harry knows it isn't a _screw-all-this-then-and-let's-get-drunk_ motion. It's a _fine-then-we-damn-well-deserve-this-today_ motion.

He's still in full possession of his mental facilities, of his reasoning. Two shots are enough to leave his brain gently buzzing, enough to drown out images of pain and blood and tears, but not enough that he's not fully aware of what's going on. Harry is likely, if anything, even less buzzed than Draco, considering Harry is slightly broader than Draco.

He almost wishes they'd had more. Wishes he could blame what happens next on the firewhiskey and forget about it. Wishes an excuse was that readily available.

He knows it isn't.

He can't blame alcohol, though it was present. He can't blame sleep-deprivation, either, though that was just as existent. He can't take some easy out.

Some distant part of him saw it coming. Some small part of him watched Harry hop off the stool and knew what was going to happen next. He isn't sure if that part of him was silenced by alcohol or lack of sleep or some bigger part of himself, but either way, he didn't move except to slide off the stool and lean against the counter top when Harry wound up behind him. Draco didn't like having Harry out of his line of sight. He hasn't figured out yet whether that's residual instinct from being rivals or a newer protective instinct. Maybe because he's not sure he wants to think about it.

Regardless, Harry had hopped up and circled the island, and Draco slid down and turned around. Harry had stepped closer, once, twice, three times, until Draco would have stepped back if he could — but he couldn't, really.

Harry's hand came up and his fingers brushed Draco's cheekbone before his hand came to rest there, cupping Draco's face. Draco's mind — the small part that wasn't panicking — had absently mused that his coordination and motor skills were still intact.

And Draco _knows_, knows beyond a shadow of a doubt — because what happened next is imprinted on his mind — that he had time to flee. He had time to slip through the gap between the barstool and the counter and slip away. He had time.

He didn't move. He didn't move a bit, both mentally and physically frozen.

And then, after a long moment of suspense and stasis, Harry had kissed him, hand still resting gently on his cheek.

And Draco hadn't pulled away.


	43. Chapter 43

_Previously: "And then, after a long moment of suspense and stasis, Harry had kissed him, hand still resting gently on his cheek. / And Draco hadn't pulled away."_

_._

A moment passes. Then another. Then another. Then the big clock in the next room starts tolling out the hour and Draco's eyes snap open and his brain starts functioning at normal speeds again and he mumbles something that might be an apology and might be an excuse and then he's gone.

He slips out of the room in seconds — he's not even processing where he is or where he's going, and he abruptly finds himself in his room, door shut behind him, on his floor, back against the door, knees pulled up to his chest. It's an unnervingly protective posture, as though he feels vulnerable, but he can't bring himself to change it.

_He kissed me._

_He kissed me and I didn't back away._

Draco has never been the best at processing emotions. He doesn't _process _them, he shuts them down, shuts them away, locks them in a dark corner of his mind with other irrelevant, not useful things. They're distractors. Detrimental. Most days, it's just easier not to feel.

But Harry has crossed a line that ought not have been crossed, and they can't go back. They can redraw that line in the sand, but they'll still be on the wrong side of it.

The question that Draco must answer, then, is does he want to go back?

Instantly, he knows the answer to that. Yes. Yes, he would go back, turn back the clock, kick Harry out before he had a chance to…

But that has less to do with emotions and more to do with logic. This risks the efficiency of their partnership. Potter is the Gryffindor, the risk taker. Draco is the Slytherin. He will play the odds without putting too much of his own at risk.

This is more than he is willing to wager. This is more than he is willing to lose.

But that doesn't matter anymore, because the wager has already been made. The bet has already been placed, and now the roulette wheel just spins 'round and 'round, and there is nothing much they can do but see where it stops.

So then the question is not does he want to go back, but rather, where does he want to go from here? Where does he want the wheel to stop?

He thinks about where they _can_ go from here. He pictures walking into the office the next day and pretending nothing ever happened. Pretending Harry had never even showed up at the Manor.

They'd stubbornly not look at each other. They'd spend ages inspecting the details in the paint on the wall. They'd talk only when they needed to for work. The awkwardness in the air would be cloying, tangible. The smooth efficiency they'd been operating with for the last year would be gone. They might even start dropping cases, leaving them unsolved — _failing_. Eventually, Potter — because he would be Potter again — would be the first to get fed up, explode, and everything would all come boiling over and they'd either scream at each other and never talk again or they'd wind up where they would if they'd tried in the first place.

Not an option.

Where else? He can walk into the office ready to talk. He pictures himself sitting in the chair on the official side of the desk — a psychologically advantageous position — finger steepled. Pictures himself saying something along the lines of, _look, Potter, this isn't an option. Can we just forget about it?_ Pictures Harry stumbling through an apology, looking suitably abashed, promising it won't happen again.

But Draco knows that attraction, infatuation, whatever this is, doesn't just go away because it's not welcomed. Knows he'd be constantly aware of that. Not overwhelmingly, but it would always be there, in the back of his mind. Knows that, for Harry, he'd be a constant reminder of rejection. It would have the same detrimental effects on their efficiency.

Not an option.

He can wait. He can give it up as a bad job, ask for a new partner — or, even better, ask Potter to ask for a new partner, because they probably wouldn't even question him. He could learn how a new partner operated, find someone else who complimented the way he worked. Harry would find a new partner as well. They'd have two partnerships that would, if the odds were in their favor, still operate on an acceptable level. It'd be a risk, but not an unthinkable one.

Maybe an option.

What other options are there?

Only the one that he doesn't want to consider. Only the one that he's not sure he _can_ consider.

He can walk into that office and change the rest of his life. He can walk in there and tell Harry that he's willing to try this, whatever this is. He can start a relationship, a _romantic relationship_ with the man he spent his childhood hating. He can let go of years of rivalry. He can walk into that office and make a choice he never thought he would even consider. He can say something like _okay, we'll try this_.

He images working while in a relationship. Imagines every single interaction causing ripples. Imagines the personal affecting the professional, imagines fighting to keep them separate — he might manage, but Harry wouldn't. Not for a moment. They'd fight, and it would affect the way they worked together.

But it might affect them in the opposite direction, too. They already interact with each other on a level that is almost intuitive; he imagines that growing deeper, more solid. Imagines what is already a smoothly oiled machine becoming only more efficient.

Yet Draco is not naïve. He knows what a relationship requires — a personal one even more than a professional one. It requires compromise. It requires occasional acquiescence. It requires _vulnerability._ None of these are things that Draco likes, as a general rule. He doesn't like to give away pieces of himself; he doesn't like to let go of his mask. He doesn't like to give people _power_ over him.

Draco likes risk-reward. He likes logic. He likes things to be calculable, empirical, objective. Not emotional. He doesn't _do _gut reaction. He doesn't do _impulse_.

But the thing about all of this is that this sort of thing isn't designed to be objective. Emotions aren't designed to be analysed, categorised — despite Draco's personal preference. And despite Draco's ability to ignore his emotions, he's never been able to rid himself of them entirely. They are still there. They still exist. And they still influence him.

And so he asks himself. _What do I _want_? _What does he _want_ happen? Does he want to walk away from the partnership that is better than anything he could have imagined? Does he want to walk away from Harry?

_Can_ he? Can he walk away?

The idea is somehow physically painful. And it's then that he realises he's already in deeper than he'd thought. He already _cares_, somehow without realising. This partnership _matters_ to him.

The thought is… almost frightening. Caring makes him vulnerable.

He wonders when it happened without him noticing. Wonders how he missed it.

The problem with caring is that it cannot be undone. He cannot _stop_ caring. Distancing himself merely catalyses the pain of separation, merely initiates it. Waiting for the caring to stop is the only method that is ever effective, and even then it's only sporadically effective, and not within his control.

He cannot solve this. It isn't _solvable; _there is not a _solution_.

He spends a brief moment wishing he could go back, undo, but then he shakes his head. There is no sense wishing for something that will not happen. The only way out is forward.

And forward he only has two options — face this, or run away.

Draco is a Slytherin. He is not a Gryffindor, set to challenge every obstacle head on. He is not a Hufflepuff — deflect, deflect, deflect. And he is not a Ravenclaw, set to charge to the library no matter what. He is a Slytherin. He looks at all the options and picks the one most suited to the situation.

The one least likely to cause him pain.

There is no option here that will not cause him pain.

He lets a breath out in a shudder and tips his head back, resting the crown of his head against the door.

He thinks about Harry. Thinks about the way he looks when he smiles, about the way he looks when he's serious, about the way he looks when he's tired, intense, happy. Thinks about the difference between when Harry smiles and when Harry smiles at him.

He thinks about the way Harry looked tonight. Today. Thinks about how seeing Harry so drained had made him feel, had made him want to… fix it. Make him smile again.

He isn't used to caring how other people feel.

He thinks about standing still, leaned against that counter, about standing still and letting Harry lean up and kiss him, about not protesting.

And he realises that for some time now, it has been quite clear what he wants to happen now, even if he hadn't known it.

There is only one option here.


	44. Chapter 44

_Previously: "There is only one option here."_

.

Draco takes a deep breath. And then another. He forces his fists to unclench, relaxes his muscles one by one. Another deep breath.

He shakes his head. He's being ridiculous. utterly ridiculous. It's just _Potter_.

_Harry_, his mind corrects_. _It's _Harry_, and somehow that makes a difference.

It isn't that they are different people to him. He's not that dissociated from reality, no.

But the connotations, the associations, are entirely different, and that makes all the difference.

He takes one more deep breath and then Apparates into the Atrium. Breaths measured, steps measured, he walks to the elevators.

It scares him, how much effort it takes to maintain control as the elevator moves along the tracks. He hasn't had to work for composure since the height of the war. He doesn't like it. It's unpleasant and discomforting.

He reminds himself — not for the first time — that he has made his decision and he is not going to change it now. He is not a Gryffindor, but that does not make him a coward.

He steps through the office doors. As expected, he's timed it perfectly — Harry is already there, so Draco doesn't have to wait (because that would give him time to worry), but they have plenty of time before the shift starts.

He shuts the door behind him.

Silently, he takes of his cloak and hangs it on the peg.

He sits down.

"We need to talk."

Harry isn't meeting his eyes.

"About last night," Draco adds, trying to raise his gaze. Harry doesn't move.

"About the kiss." And then, finally, Harry's eyes snap up — as though surprised Draco actually said it.

Draco resists the urge to smirk, but only just.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbles finally. "I-"

But Draco interrupts. "Don't… apologise. Not if you meant it."

Harry looks like he's searching for something in Draco's eyes. He doesn't seem to find it, but still, he murmurs, "I did mean it."

Draco nods sharply. "Then own it; don't try to take it back."

Harry looks thoroughly reproached and Draco suspects that he hasn't exactly chosen the best way to begin the conversation he's trying to have. He sighs.

"Look, Potter… _Harry_. I…"

"You don't have to say it, Draco."

"I think I do."

"No, look. I get it. I misjudged some things, and… I won't apologise for fear of you biting my head off––" he grins but it doesn't reach his eyes "––but I… I understand."

"I don't think you do."

Harry's eyes narrow. "What are you trying to imply? Who's the empathetic one, here?"

"And who's the one who won't shut up and listen?" Draco snaps back, still a bit edgy. He doesn't like this, doesn't like conversing about _feelings._

Harry looks briefly taken aback. But he shuts up, for which Draco is grateful.

"Look, Harry. I… You know me. You know that… emotions, are not my forte. I am not… _good_ at this. Any of this. I feel… very out of my depth. And I am not used to that. I don't like it. And, most of the time, I… deal with this, by ignoring it. And that's fine with me. It's easier." He raises his gaze from where it has dropped to the floor and meets Harry's startled green eyes. "You… do not allow me to ignore it. You make me _feel_ things I don't want to feel. You make me _care_. You are, as you have always been, the _exception_ for me. You take things that I am convinced are impossible and you defy logic and do them anyway. You… shatter my self-control, my walls. And that… terrifies me."

He breathes very deeply. "I am not used to embracing things that are beyond my control. But this… this is so far beyond my control already that I honestly don't think it can get any worse." Half of his mouth twitches to show that he's joking. "I can't stop myself from caring, because it's already happened."

He watches the light grow inside of Harry as he speaks and he knows, intuitively, that he's made the right choice — because something inside him grows as Harry's features light up: something unrecognisable, but good.

"So I am willing to give this… whatever this is, a chance."

And Harry beams broadly at him. "Seriously" he asks quietly.

"I would not joke about this, Harry."

Harry notices the unhesitating use of his last name and his smile, if anything, grows even broader. "Draco, would you like to go to dinner with me tonight?"

And Draco smiles, because Harry phrases it as a question despite knowing the answer — he appreciates that. "I think I might be able to make that," he says, smirking. Harry scowls good-naturedly, but he can't stop the smile from spreading back across his face. Draco laughs slightly at the expression before pulling out his wand and spelling in for the beginning of his shift. Harry follows moments after, his face finally straightening as he pulls out the file.

It's a bit of an abrupt transition, from dinner to death. It's the sort of transition they've gotten too used to.

"I don't think the neighbor's testimony was useful, do you?" Harry asks.

Draco shakes his head. "He didn't know the man was a wizard, didn't know any of his associates, didn't see anything useful. The murderer was obviously a wizard — the wound showed no sign of any substance other than flesh. There were no footprints. No breaks in the spatter pattern. Only a wizard could have made a cut that deep from that far away."

Harry nods. "Which, obviously, limits the suspect pool a bit."

The corner of Draco's mouth twitches at the blatant statement of the obvious. "A bit, yes."

"What sort of wizard was Burke? Do you know, or should we find someone else who knew him?"

Draco purses his lips slightly. "He was an associate of my father's, for what that means. I didn't hear a lot about him, really. He came up between my parents every once in a while when I was a kid, but not a lot after that. I don't know if they just had a falling out, or if Burke simply… outlived his usefulness, or… He wasn't a Death Eater. Not during the second war, at least." Draco sighs. "We should probably see if we can find a closer associate."

Nodding, Harry says, "Where do we start that? Any relatives?"

Draco flips through the file. "Not close. Parents are both deceased, only sibling was a stillborn older brother. He's got an aunt, his mother's sister, but she lives in France, so I'm guessing they didn't see each other much. Cousin that might have known him — Avior Burke. Worth looking into, at least?" Harry stands up and grabs his cloak.

"Better than sitting here by a mile. Let's go."

Draco looks at the address, pulling up his mental map of London and placing the address on it. The closest place he knows well enough to visualise and Apparate to is three blocks away. "Closest place?" he asks, wondering if Harry knows a place closer — not that he thinks he will, but he figures it's worth asking, especially considering Harry's tendency to get offended when Draco assumes things about him.

Harry shakes his head. "I'm absolutely awful at directions, Draco. I couldn't even tell you what part of London that's in, let alone if I know any place close to it." His face goes serious, and Draco knows Harry is thinking about his childhood, before his Hogwarts years. It's the only time his face ever looks quite like that. "I didn't come to London as a kid. The family did, but I was never a part of that."

And Draco loathes that, the way Harry says "the family," as though it's a separate entity, something apart from him, something he'll never belong to. Something he wasn't _good enough _to belong to. It makes him want to find Harry's relatives and strangle them with his bare hands, no matter how Muggle the impulse may seem.

He wonders about it sometimes. How the Golden Boy of the Wizarding World grew up with so little. How no one noticed. It seems impossible to think that Dumbledore could have just _not noticed_. Yet, no matter what Draco's feelings on Dumbledore, Draco still doesn't believe that he would have knowingly left Harry to grow up like that.

He grabs his cloak and swirls it over his shoulders. "It isn't right," he says softly.

Harry frowns at him as he dons his own cloak. "What isn't?" he asks as he shuts the office door behind them.

"What they did. Your childhood. It isn't right; you know that, right?" Because he suddenly has the need to confirm that, suddenly has the suspicion that Harry might _not_ know.

But Harry just smiles at him softly. "I know that, Draco. I know. Now, anyway."

Draco doesn't miss the implication, and he frowns at the thought — and he is surprised by how much it affects him, but he pushes it aside as they reach the Atrium. There is no space for foreign pangs of sympathy at work.

Draco offers his arm, and Harry takes it with a small smile.

And if he hangs on a little bit longer than he needs to, well, Draco isn't protesting.


	45. Chapter 45

A note about review replies: I have, in the past, tried to reply to all of them.

This is no longer possible if I want to update weekly.

From this point on I have made the decision to only reply to those that I have something substantial to say. I am sorry about this. It was a hard decision to make. I like replying. It makes me feel closer to my reviewers. But I cannot if I want to update in reasonable time — which is both crazy good and unfortunate at the same time.

I still cherish them all.

Thanks for understanding.

.

_Previously: "And if he hangs on a little bit longer than he needs to, well, Draco isn't protesting."_

_._

The street they appear on is small, narrow, dingy, and dark. It's not pretty. It hasn't been cleared away in some time — piles of litter clutter the shadows and a smell of cat urine hangs in the air. Draco wrinkles his nose slightly in an instant and he can practically feel himself shrinking away from any surfaces.

Harry, oddly, doesn't seem at all phased by their surroundings. He looks around curiously.

"Why did you know how to visualise _this_?" he finally asks, and Draco understand the look he's being given now.

"That, Harry, is a long story that we certainly do not have time for at the moment." And Draco whirls around with a sharp step, hands almost automatically lifting the hem of his cloak so that it doesn't drag, and he sets off down the alleyway. After only a moment, Harry follows.

"How far?" he asks.

Draco glances at him and almost smiles, though he isn't entirely sure why. There's something about the way that Harry intuitively follows him — about a half a step behind and a body's width right, almost always on the right — that just makes Draco want to either laugh, or snap at him to follow at his side like anyone else.

He does neither. Instead, he merely says, "Not long," and turns his head forward again.

The thought doesn't leave his head, and he weighs the benefits of asking and not asking for a moment, and then "Why is that your intuitive position?"

He glances back over his shoulder to see Harry frowning in confusion. "What?"

"That. You always follow on the right. Behind. Never beside. Rarely in front, either, even if you know where you're going. Your intuitive position is always a half a step behind me on the right. Why?"

Harry's frown only deepens. Draco, getting sick of looking over his shoulder, slows his pace a notch and watches as Harry automatically does too. "See, there? You just kept that position even though it meant changing your pace. Why?"

Something sparks in Harry's green eyes — determination, maybe? — and he deliberately takes a few quick steps, matching his stride to Draco's. "I don't know," he says, his voice calm and his words very considered. "I've never noticed it before." He falls silent for a moment before noting, "It might be a defensive familiarity thing. I feel… out of place."

He isn't looking up.

"You feel out of place walking beside someone? What about Granger, Weasley? You don't walk a half step behind them, not that I've noticed."

But Harry shakes his head. "That's entirely different, Draco," he says immediately. "The dynamics of three versus the dynamics of two… no, they aren't the same."

Draco stops abruptly without answering, staring at the grimy silver numbers on the face of a house."We're here," he says, gesturing toward it. He looks the building up and down. Three blocks has not taken them to a much better neighborhood. The tall buildings and narrow streets mean that little natural light penetrates the area, lending everything a creepy sort of aura. A creeping feeling makes its way up his spine, and this puts Draco immediately on edge. This feeling never leads to good things.

Almost unconsciously, he slips his wand out of his holster and grips it loosely. Harry follows his actions seconds later.

"Do you feel that?" he asks, his voice low.

Draco nods without a word.

After a long moment of complete stillness, Draco finally moves forward and raps his knuckles on the door. It echoes in the silent street. Draco looks behind him, still half expecting Harry to… compress, like normal people do in dangerous situations. Usually, shoulders hunch, the body automatically making itself a smaller target. It still surprises Draco that Harry is the exact opposite — if anything, he inflates. His shoulders go back, his breathing deepens, and he actually looks _confident_.

Yet he claims to have survived his Hogwarts years by luck. If that were true, he'd still be terrified. Just waiting for his luck to change.

After a moment, the door opens just a crack, a chain preventing it from opening much more. "Who're you?" A gruff voice asks.

Draco flashes his badge. Seconds later Harry flips his out as well. "Aurors Potter and Malfoy, sir. Are you Avior Burke?"

The man's eyes narrow. "An' what if I am?"

"Then we have some information you might like to know and some questions you might be able to answer."

"An' what if I'm not?"

Draco smiles. It is not a friendly expression. "Then you will tell us where he is, or you will be arrested for interfering with an ongoing investigation."

He scowls, and the door closes.

Draco can feel Harry stiffen in offense at the action, before the door opens again, this time lacking the chain. The man jerks with his head, gesturing for them to come in.

Draco turns to Harry and raises an eyebrow. Harry just scowls in reply. Draco smirks, and then he follows the man inside the house.

They are led through a dark hallway and told to sit on a couch that looks like it saw its last days ten years prior. Draco wants to wrinkle his nose, but he doesn't.

Harry sits very calmly on the couch. After a brief moment, Draco sits next to him. The man vanishes.

Silence descends.

"Where d'you think he went?" Harry asks after a moment.

Draco shakes his head. "I'd thought he was Burke, but if he left to get him…"

"Maybe he left for another reason?"

"But _why_?"

Harry shrugs, smirking because he knows that Draco hates it when he shrugs. "Maybe he went to get something?"

"Like what? What is so important that he'd leave a pair of Aurors in his house alone?"

"Maybe he's hiding something?"

Draco allows the conversation to drift into silence, knowing they don't want to still be discussing it when the man comes back. His eyes wander the room.

Ancient wallpaper is peeling. The wood floors are faded, worn to soft. The couch and the small table in front of it are the only pieces of furniture, and neither of them are against the wall — both are set precisely in the center of the room, which serves to make the room feel even smaller than it already is.

Draco leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.

After minutes of silence, the same man who'd opened the door returns. He carries a tray with a kettle in the middle and three cups and pots of tea leaves around it. He sets the tray down and offers them tea.

Harry is too busy being shocked to reply. Draco nods because it's polite, because it is ingrained in him not to deny someone's offered hospitality. Not because he actually has any current desire for tea. He takes a cup and smells the two different canisters of leaves. Picking a darker leave with a sharper smell, he waits for Harry to snap out of his stupor, even as he waits for the man to pour from the kettle first.

The man almost smiles at his deliberate hesitation. "I'm not trying to poison you, boy."

"I'm not a boy."

"No, I suppose you aren't." Something dark lingers beneath the man's words. "Why are you looking for Avior Burke?" the man asks.

"Why are we looking for _you, _you mean?"

A gruff smile appears. "Yes, I suppose I do. How did you know?"

"You came back alone. If he were here, you'd have brought him. If he weren't here, you wouldn't have let us in. You're curious, but cautious. Smart."

"Don't flatter me, boy." Draco scowls his silent disapproval at the repeated name. The corner of Burke's mouth twitches.

"You still haven't answered my question," he says. "Why?"

"How well did you know your cousin Phineas?"

Burke shrugs. "Not well. Phin was a bit of a loner type, and so am I, to be honest. Neither one of us really bothered with the family thing. Why, what's he done?"

"Why do you assume it's something he's done?" Harry asks.

"Isn't it? Why else would the Aurors be here?"

Harry's voice hits that low, soft octave that it always does when imparting bad news. "Mr. Burke, I'm really sorry to tell you this, but… Phineas was found murdered in his home yesterday."

Burke blanches. "He's… dead?"

"I'm afraid so."

Burke truly looks like a man in shock. His skin pales. His eyes go wide, and he stares as though looking at something else entirely, something they can't see.

"How?" he finally asks. "Why?"

"A spell severed his carotid artery. He bled out in seconds. As for why… well, we were hoping you could help us with that, Mr. Burke."


	46. Chapter 46

_Early update this week — if things go the way I plan, you'll get this one today, one tomorrow or Thursday, and then not for a few weeks, because I'm going to be out of the country._

_._

_Previously: "As for why… well, we were hoping you could help us with that, Mr. Burke."_

.

Draco watches Burke's pale features, watches the way his hands shake ever-so-slightly as he grips the handle to his teacup. After a moment, he slowly sets the tea back down, his motions very deliberate. He laces his fingers together and Draco notes the way the skin whitens from pressure as the blood is pushed below the surface, notes that he is gripping his fingers so tightly because he doesn't want them to tremble. _He doesn't want to be weak._ And Draco understands, because they are the motions of a Pureblood man, the motions of a man who spent his entire childhood told to keep his emotions close, because emotions were the easiest way for them to get to you. The easiest way for them to exploit you. The Burkes and the Malfoys may be entirely different by social class, but apparently they aren't so different in teaching.

And he doesn't for an instant believe that Avior Burke killed his cousin. They are not the emotions of a guilty man he's trying to hide — they are the emotions of a man who cared more than he knew, more than he thinks he should have.

After a long moment of silence, Burke shakes his head. "Like I said, I didn't really know Phin. I mean, he was my cousin, yeah, and I knew who he was, but I didn't really… know him, y'know? More knew _of_ him. Said hello when I saw him in the streets. Met at a few family things. Seemed a nice enough bloke, for this family — fake, but who isn't?" He scowls a bit. Harry is looking at him in confusion, but Draco understands completely. _Fake_. Because fake was safer than being real. Because they can hurt whatever you put on the surface, but they can't hurt what you bury underneath.

He looks at Harry and realises that this is a large part of why he actually genuinely _likes_ the man. Harry is utterly _genuine _in a way Draco isn't used to. He doesn't have to second guess everything the man says. He doesn't have to look for hidden motives.

Focusing his attention back on the case, Draco asks, "So you don't know anyone else who would know what your cousin may have been involved in, then?"

"Well, what happened to his wife? I assume she's not dead, too, right? Or you'd've said."

Draco frowns. He remembers reading the file distinctly, remembers the list of family members, remembers reading and discarding name after name. He doesn't remember a wife — and his memory isn't perfect, but it isn't _that_ bad. Not hardly.

"Wife?"

Burke frowns at their apparent surprise. "Well, yeah. M-something. Maggie? Maddie? I don't remember exactly; I only met her once and she kept her head down and hardly spoke a word the entire time. Never said anything unless you asked her a question, in fact. I remember her, because she was beautiful when she looked up, but she so rarely did. I'd never met a woman both that beautiful and that shy before. Her hair hid her face for most of the night. That was…" He thinks for a moment. "That was about three years ago, I think. Haven't seen her since, but then, I've only seen Phineas himself once since then, and that was in Diagon Alley in an Apothecary."

Harry's expression is still baffled, though Draco has long since schooled away his surprise. "Mr. Burke…" Draco says slowly, "Your cousin wasn't married. Not by any records."

Burke frowns and Draco can tell he's examining his memory carefully. "I… I distinctly remember him saying she was his wife. I remember, because nobody seemed to know Phin was married. Not one person."

"Would he have a reason to lie about it? Anyone who desperately wanted him to get married, anyone he really needed to stop chasing after him by claiming to be taken?"

Burke looks thoughtful, but he shakes his head. "His mum was already dead at that point. And… trust me, if Phin didn't want you around him, you wouldn't be around him. Period. He wasn't real big, but he just had this… look about him. Intimidating."

"Mmm. And how did he act around her?"

"He was… careful, I guess. He was always glancing at her, making sure she was okay, making sure she was still there."

Draco absorbs this and then glances at Harry to see if he has any questions. He doesn't, so Draco stands and holds out his hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Burke," he says formally.

Burke nods, taking the hand. "Find the bastard that did this to my cousin, Auror Malfoy." It isn't a question.

Draco won't make promises he doesn't know he can keep, so he merely says, "We will do our best."

Burke meets his eyes fiercely. Draco isn't sure what he's looking for, but he appears to find it, because after a long moment he nods and releases Draco's hand.

Harry fishes a small card with both their names and their office number on it out of the depths of his pocket and hands it to the man, surreptitiously trying to smooth out the creases as he does so. A small smirk spreads across Draco's face as he watches the action. Harry scowls at him as he tells Burke to contact them if he has any questions or thinks of anything else that could be useful. Burke looks between them, shrugs, and leads them to the door.

.

Harry is pacing the tiny length of the office as Draco sits sprawled across the chair behind the desk. "I just don't understand," he says after long moments of pacing. "How is it possible?" With a flop, he lands in the other desk chair, the wheels sliding on impact until the chair back collides with the wall. Harry takes the impact surprisingly well, staying balanced. But then, Draco supposes, he was a Seeker. A good one.

"The simplest solution is that it's a lie. He isn't married. If it doesn't exist there would be no record."

"But why lie?"

"Plenty of reasons. Respect. Image."

Harry frowns, shakes his head. "But why _lie_? If it were an image thing, don't you reckon he could have found a real wife and married her?"

Draco tips his head, considering the possibility. "That seems… inconvenient."

"People do it, though," Harry says. "Don't they?"

He looks at Draco like Draco's the expert here, like Draco is the one who knows about Pureblood life. And he is, but it still feels… off, somehow. He can't explain it, not even to himself but somehow the simple question makes him feel discomfited. "Yes." The word slips between his lips before he even intends to say it. "People do. Some people." He pauses, then says, "But if the image only mattered for that one night…"

"Why? Why would it only matter for one night?"

"Any number of reasons. Inheritance laws, the spread of gossip, a vengeance plan…"

Silence descends for a few moments.

Harry breaks it.

"What if she was a Muggle? What if she was a Muggle, and he didn't want anyone to know so he married her in the Muggle world with Muggle paperwork and never filed through the Ministry because he didn't want it to be in the record books? It would explain her mannerisms, too, her crippling shyness — who isn't shy when they find themselves thrust into a whole new world they'd never believed existed? She'd've been terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified of his reaction if they'd found out, and utterly overwhelmed by the information overload. I know I was."

Draco doesn't often think about it, about what a culture shock it must be for the kids who are Muggle-raised to join their world so abruptly. It's probably even more so for anyone who joins as an adult, especially if they aren't supposed to show it; they're just supposed to pretend. Pretend to know things they don't. Pretend to understand what's going on around them. Quickly learn names, history, terminology, culture — and all well enough to pass it off as a lifetime's worth of knowledge.

"Maybe," he acknowledges finally. "That's certainly a possibility."

Harry looks stubbornly determined, the way he always does at this point in a case — the point at which it becomes important to turn theories into proofs. "So how do we make it a certainty, then?"

Draco frowns. Harry taps the arm of his chair in a rhythmic pattern unconsciously.

"Do Muggles keep marriage records?"

And Draco realises as he asks that it's the same way Harry asked him the marriage question. And he thinks about how many times Waters told them that a good match was about balance, so he shakes off the feeling of inherent separation as Harry nods.

"That's how," Draco says, standing and grabbing his cloak, Harry only seconds behind him.


	47. Chapter 47

_Previously: '"That's how," Draco says, standing and grabbing his cloak, Harry only seconds behind him.'_

.

"Where do they keep marriage records? In a government building?" Draco glances at Harry without breaking stride until he sees that Harry has stopped, frowning. Abruptly, Harry turns around and begins walking in the opposite direction, _away_ from the elevators that will take them to the elevators and the Atrium.

"Harry, what are you doing?"

Harry doesn't respond, so Draco follows him, figuring that's his best chance of figuring out the answer to that question.

Consciously, Draco falls into step exactly beside Harry, just to see what he'll do.

He glances sidelong at Draco with a knowing smirk, but he keeps his pace, eventually turning his head to face forward again. The smirk still plays at his lips.

"Would you mind letting me know where we're going?" Draco asks, allowing a bit of the sullenness to slip into his voice because he _can. _

"Yes," Harry says.

"Yes?"

"Yes, I mind."

The cheeky smirk grows and Draco scowls.

"I don't care if you mind. Where are we going?" Draco asks, his tone flat.

The smirk grows into a lopsided smile. "I'm not going to tell you."

"But why not?"

"Because."

Draco feels like he's humoring a five-year-old as he responds, "Because _why not_?"

"Because I like surprising you," Harry admits, his tone going funny and soft in a way that makes Draco want to smile and scowl at the same time. The pitch of it does strange things to Draco's stomach. Externally, he just scowls again.

Harry's eyes twinkle in a way that makes Draco think Harry knows the scowl is just for show. He can't decide if he's pleased or dismayed by this.

Tracking their progress, Draco eventually guesses, "Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?"

Harry glances at him sideways, green gaze curious. "Exactly how well do you know the Ministry?"

"Better than I ever wanted to and less than my father would have liked. Why are we going to Creatures? This isn't a creature case."

"It's less the Department that's important so much as who works in the department," Harry says, his tone cryptic.

Draco hasn't been paying a whole lot of attention to who works where — less than he probably should, in fact — and he can't think of a single person relevant right now who works for the Creatures department.

Instead of trying to make a complete picture out of a puzzle he hasn't given himself all the pieces for, Draco just decides to go with it. Harry wouldn't lead them off on a wild-goose chase on purpose — he _cares_ far too much for that. He must think this matters, and as much as it sometimes pains Draco to admit, he's probably right. He usually is. Harry has good instincts for Auror work.

Entering the Creatures department, Harry doesn't hesitate in the slightest but instead makes a straight path toward a specific office, a specific woman. A woman who is very familiar.

"Granger?"

Harry glances at him, doesn't answer, and then knocks on the closed door. Granger looks up, sights them through the glass, and gestures with his head for them to come in.

"Harry." Her tone is genuinely warm and she smiles slightly, despite the frazzled look in her eyes. "Aren't you on the clock right now?"

Harry collapses into the chair across the desk from her with an air of easy familiarity. Draco stands behind him to the right, his posture relaxed but feeling out of his element.

"Yeah," he says. "Had a question for you, though. Did you ever rig that computer to work in here?"

She purses her lips slightly. "I haven't had time," she says, and she sounds disappointed in herself.

Harry puts up a hand, waves it away artlessly. "It's not essential, and you aren't a miracle worker. I need to get ahold of marriage records — how do I do that?"

Draco is taking in the words, despite the fact that there are words he's never even heard before, but mostly he's observing Harry.

He doesn't think he's ever seen the man so… relaxed.

Not that Harry is a particularly stressed person on normal days. There's just something… different about the way he looks right now. He looks completely at ease in his own skin, completely comfortable. It's exactly the way Draco tries to look most of the time, but there's something intangible there that he just can't emulate, can't pin it down. It's an effortlessness born of familiarity that can't be faked.

"Er, walk upstairs?" Granger comments with a note of confusion in her voice, shaking Draco out of his musings.

Harry laughs. "Muggle marriage records, that is."

The confusion lines smooth out of her expression. "Oh. Public Records Office. It's in Kew. Why?" Now her face is expressing curiosity. Draco thinks about how he's so used to being around people who control their emotions — even Harry now falls into that category when it matters. Granger wears her emotions like accessories, right on the outside where anyone can see them, just as long as they know how to identify what they're seeing.

Strangely, rather than creating repulsion, it actually somewhat lessens his disdain for her. It isn't lack of knowledge — it's deliberate for her. It makes her seem… open, rather than naïve. Though perhaps that's the glint of steel in her eyes, clearly displaying that she is not someone to mess with.

But then, Draco learned that in his third year. It wasn't the first time he was slapped, and it certainly wasn't the last, but it was the one that hit the hardest, and he sort of respects her for that.

Not that he'd ever mention that, of course. She's still _Granger_. Know-it-all, bookworm, muggleborn Granger who doesn't understand how the Wizarding World works even after spending half her life a member of it. She always wants to _change_ things, to fix things that don't need fixing. And she doesn't ever let things go once she has then between her teeth. It's infuriating.

Harry glances at Draco at her question of why. A silent_, Can I answer that?_

Draco just raises an eyebrow in response. _That's up to you_.

Harry shrugs and turns back to her, beginning to explain about the case and the suspect with a wife but no marriage records. Granger isn't looking at him, though. She's looking at Draco, and there's something that's scarily perceptive in her brown eyes. She looks at Harry briefly, and then her eyes flick back to Draco. There is a question in them that Draco can read clear as day, but he keeps his features impassive, his posture artfully relaxed. He isn't going to answer her. She frowns, pursing her lips slightly. Harry looks confused at her expression until he follows her gaze, at which point he grins slightly.

Granger's eyebrows rise. Draco narrows his eyebrows at her in response. Hers rise another notch.

And then, abruptly, Harry bursts out laughing and the unnatural tension that collected disperses. "Your… faces…" he gasps out in between breaths.

Draco allows the corners of his mouth to curl up faintly at Harry's amusement, and Granger outright smiles. There's still something in her eyes that unnerves Draco, though. Something knowing.

Harry stands, and a small bit of the tension drains out of Draco. "Thanks, Hermione!" Harry says cheerfully, turning to leave.

"Harry." She stops him. "You know you have people in your own department for things like this, don't you? Even if there isn't an official source, well, Dean's an Auror, isn't he? I know for a fact that he's kept in touch with his roots, and I'm sure he's not the only one."

Harry grins at her. "Are you saying you don't like to see me? I'm wounded. I thought you geniunely liked me, Hermione. Now I see it was all just a front. You only liked me for my fame!"

She rolls her eyes in unsurprised exasperation. "Of course not. I'm just saying that, for efficiency's sake, there are better alternatives."

"For efficiency's sake, maybe. But what fun would that be?" And Harry dashes out the door. For a moment, Draco wonders if he really is so childish that he would perform an abrupt exit just to have the last word, but then he thinks about and realises the answer is most assuredly yes. He nods calmly at Granger — who just gives him another knowing smile in reply — before calmly following Harry out the door.

This time Harry travels in the correct direction and Draco instinctively falls into step beside him.

After a moment of silence, Harry asks mildly, "Draco, you know where Kew is, right?"

Draco nearly laughs aloud. "Yes, Harry, I know where Kew is."

Harry nods mildly. "I figured so. That's why I didn't ask."

And Draco is briefly started by this demonstration of faith in him, until he recalls who he's talking to. It's Harry. Faith in people is practically his trademark. So instead of commenting, he just smiles faintly.


	48. Chapter 48

AN: Er, don't hate me?

_Previously: "It's Harry. Faith in people is practically his trademark. So instead of commenting, [Draco] just smiles faintly."_

.

Nothing.

That's what they find in the marriage records. Nothing.

Harry makes the point that he could have registered under a different name, but they have no way of knowing what it might be, no way of finding it if it's there.

And Draco doesn't think it is. Something about the theory just… doesn't feel right.

But a feeling doesn't mean anything to anyone, and it's worth just as much nothing as the trip to Kew.

They spell out at the end of their shift sober with disappointment, but then a small smile flickers across Harry's face as he names a time and place and Draco remembers what exactly he agreed to this morning. _Was it really only this morning?_

The corners of his mouth twitch faintly and he nods. They walk together to the Atrium, conversation flowing when it's natural and not when it isn't. Both are fine.

They reach the apparation point and Harry smiles that same small smile — _shy_, Draco realises. The smile is shy. It's almost unexpected, but then Draco contemplates it, and he realises that the only one he remembers Potter dating was the Weaselette. And Chang, briefly, but that was a rebound thing and hardly counts.

Weaselette is obviously a girl.

Draco is obviously not.

Of course, there is always the possibility that Harry dated boys secretly, the way Draco did. But Draco strongly suspects that Harry wasn't really capable of that sort of deception during his Hogwarts years. Too Gryffindor for it. Gryffindor were no good at hiding relationships — if they didn't say it with their words, they said it with their bodies, the intrigued tilt of the shoulders, the lazy curve of the lips, the smug sparkle of the eyes.

So Draco is going to operate on the assumption that Harry's first time kissing a man was the night before.

Which, really, explains the shyness.

Draco is broken out of his thoughts by Harry's voice murmuring, "I'll see you in a couple hours?"

Draco allows himself to smile back. "Yes," he says simply, and then he Disapparates.

.

She is in her room, just as he expects her to be. She's in a proper robe. It's the first time she's decided to get dressed herself since… since the end of the war. Since the beginning of this… whatever this is she's been going through.

He smiles, genuinely. "Mum."

She smiles back at him. It's brittle, fragile, but _there_. "How are you, baby?"

He steps up next to her chair, kneels to put them on almost equal level. "I'm fine, Mother. Just fine. I think the better question is how are you?"

She smiles again, vaguely. "I'm… all right."

For the first time in a very long time, he actually believes her when she says it. She isn't _good_, not by a long shot — something lurks in her eyes, just waiting for a chance to break free — but she is _getting there._ She is _all right._

Some days, Draco wonders exactly what Harry said to her to get her to show up for their movement into official Auror status. Wonders what line Harry tried, because it was effective in a way that nothing Draco tried was — and she's Draco's mother. Draco feels like he should have been the one with the words to save her, not Potter. Never Potter.

But he isn't one to refuse good things in life — _question_, yes, always question everything. But refuse? Absolutely not.

"Draco?" she questions softly.

He smiles faintly in response. "Yes?"

"Do you think maybe… we could go to the park around the corner? And just… sit?"

It's the first time in ages she's proposed something. It's the first time in ages she's volunteered to leave the house.

Draco's faint smile grows. "I think that sounds nice, Mother."

.

Harry stalks into the office, his green eyes blazing with fury. "I can't _believe_ you!"

Draco sits calmly at the desk, hands folded. This seems to infuriate Harry further as Draco attempts to speak. "I-"

Harry cuts him off. "Don't. Don't bother." Hurt has joined the fury in his eyes. "If you didn't want to go out with me, you could have just _said _so! You didn't have to _humiliate _me!"

He tosses a copy of the day's _Prophet_ on the desk in front of Draco, open to the title page of the second section. _THE BOY WHO LIVED TO BE DISAPPOINTED._ "Because apparently when I sit alone for three hours it's newsworthy! You _stood_ me _up,_ Draco!"

"Harry, I-"

"Don't!" His posture is entirely defensive, his shoulders curled as though to make himself the smallest possible target. He looks entirely _vulnerable_. _Broken_. "Please, don't try to make excuses."

He turns around, his spine rigid, his shoulders shaking. "I can't. God, I can't." And he starts walking, opens the office door.

"Harry, we have a case!" Draco calls softly, assuming that will stop him. Harry has always been big on _duty_, and this case, his duty, should be enough to override even his anger. He expects Harry's shoulders to stiffen, expects him to freeze, expects him to slowly turn around and come back. Harry keeps walking.

Draco shoots up out of the chair and follows him, catching him just outside the Auror offices, catches his wrist. His voice pitched too low to be overheard, he says, "Harry, please."

That's all he says, all he needs to.

A low sound that might be a sob rips from Harry's throat and Harry slips out of Draco's loose grip and hits the wall, sliding down it and hugging his knees to his chest.

"I considered a thousand different ways it would go, Draco. That, that wasn't one of them. Because you know what? I didn't think you were a _coward." _He spits out the last word like it's acid. Draco winces and then sits down next to him.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. Harry looks at him and Draco knows that Harry realises how infrequently Draco apologises, _truly _apologises_._ But it isn't enough, not for this. "It wasn't that I didn't want to, I promise you that. It wasn't because I was afraid." He sighs very carefully and then explains about his mother's brilliant but inopportunely timed breakthrough. "I couldn't have left her. I couldn't have."

"So send a Patronus, then! I waited for _three hours_, Draco! I wouldn't have minded you needing to reschedule — certainly not for that — if you'd have just _told_ me."

"I can't," Draco admits. Harry looks at him.

'Can't what?"

"I can't send a message Patronus. I don't know how. Never exactly needed to." He rubs the inside of his left wrist, where the tracery of scars is still faintly visible. That was their method of communication.

He hates admitting the weakness, but at this point it's better than the alternative.

"You… can't… okay, we'll come back to that later," Harry says slowly. "Send an owl!"

This time, Draco looks down at the cool stone floor. "I didn't… think about it," he says slowly.

And he fully expects another — justified — flare of rage from Harry, but instead Harry recoils, almost as if Draco had slapped him. "Of course," he mumbles. "I'm being selfish, aren't I? Of course you weren't thinking about me when-"

Draco breaks that train off before it can be allowed to continue. "No, don't. Don't do that. That's… no."

Harry looks at him and raises his eyebrows in question. "Don't what?"

"Don't start blaming yourself for this. It wasn't about you. It wasn't about you being insignificant to me, about you not mattering. It was about…" And Draco sighs, because he's not entirely sure how to explain everything that it entails in a few sentences. "I grew up, Harry, being constantly told that there were three things that mattered — reputation, family, and self. In that order. If my reputation or my family are under threat, what I want… it doesn't even get to factor in. To the point where… this is the way my brain is hard-wired. I don't push things that fall lower in the hierarchy away. They just don't crop up in the first place. It isn't a conscious decision, anymore. It hasn't been for a long time."

Harry sighs, leans his head forward, tucking it in between his arms and his knees. "I understand," he says slowly. But Draco can see that he's understanding it all the wrong way. He's understanding it to mean that he matters less than all of that.

"Harry," Draco says softly, very much aware that they are in a public hallway in the middle of the Ministry and anyone could walk by, and very much not allowing it to stop him from saying what he must. "Harry, just because my childhood and the hard-wiring of my brain say that you aren't allowed to matter, doesn't mean you don't. It just means that I need the time to rewire so that my mental priorities and my emotional priorities match up."

Harry is still looking fixedly at his knees.

"Harry, look at me."

Harry looks up. Pain and guilt and grief and frustration all war in his eyes, and Draco can tell Harry is thinking something along the lines of _we are both so messed up_. Because Harry's childhood has left him unable to believe that he matters and Draco's has left him unable to convince his own brain that Harry matters.

_God, we're quite a pair._

But that's not what Draco says. Instead, he holds Harry's gaze intensely and says, "You matter. I promise you that you matter, and I hope you will let me attempt to prove that."

And he does. Because he could take this as a sign that they shouldn't even try but the concept of that actually _hurts_, because now that he's committed himself to trying he is realising how much he wanted to in the first place.


	49. Chapter 49

_Thanks to my dearest wife Sam, for the idea for this chapter. She's perfect, you know. _

_Thanks to the entire viber group (you know who you are… even though none of you are reading this) for helping me name my newest character._

_._

_Previously: "…because now that he's committed himself to trying he is realising how much he wanted to in the first place."_

_._

They sit in silence on the floor of the Ministry hallway for too long.

Both of them spell in late — not exceptionally so, but still.

"_Some things are more important_," Harry murmurs in a pitch so low Draco isn't entirely sure he was meant to hear it. Either way, he doesn't respond, and they shift into work mode.

"Do we even have anything left to go on?" Harry asks. "Family gave us nothing, we have no clue about friends, the neighbor didn't even know he was a wizard… where else do we look?"

Draco shakes his head. He's as out of ideas as Harry is. They don't even know where to begin looking for the mysterious wife who was not his wife. They have zero leads.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

Draco's wand pulses. Both their heads snap up to stare at it where it sits in the holster around his wrist.

"That's the ward around Phineas Burke's house."

After a moment of shock, Draco snatches up his cloak, Harry just a half a beat behind him, and they both dart out the office door, making a beeline for the Atrium.

When they arrive at the house, they find a man banging on the newly replaced front door, apparently oblivious to anything that's happened recently. "Come on, Burke! Open the damn door; I know you're in there! I know you've got her, too! Yesterday was the agreement. You know how it works!"

"Know how what works?" Draco murmurs, voice low, close to the man's ear — he snuck up beside him easily, amidst the banging and the yelling.

The man's head jerks up, sights Draco, looks him up and down once. His eyes widen and his shoulders turn, as if he intends to bolt. He doesn't even make it to a half turn, because Harry is standing opposite Draco, wand up.

The man turns back to Draco, who smiles. It's not a welcoming smile.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's all right."

The words say that it is a suggestion. The tone says that it is not.

"It isn't, actually," the man growls.

Draco's smile grows into a smirk. "Then we're going to have to arrest you on suspicion of involvement in the murder of one Phineas Burke. After all, those were some angry words you were yelling. Sounds like you might have motive."

The man recoils. "Burke's dead?"

Shock, but not sadness. A faint lacing of irritation, and a frustrated glance at the house. Not a friend, clearly. Probably not their killer, either, but still worth talking to.

"He was murdered two days ago."

Another glance at the house, this one conflicted — irritated, angry, frustrated, and almost… concerned.

"There are two ways we can do this," Draco reminds him. The man just shakes his head.

"I ain't goin' anywhere with you." He glances back at Harry and his gaze hardens.

Draco sighs, nods. Harry, taking the signal, casts a binding spell on his wrists.

"Very well," Draco says, allowing a hint of disappointment to seep into his voice. "You are hereby under arrest for suspicion of involvement of the death of Phineas Burke. I am obligated to inform you that you have the right to legal representation during questioning should you wish it."

The man growls, and Draco takes that to mean that he doesn't, in fact, want any representation.

On their way past the Apparation wards, the man throws one last glance back at the house. Draco stores this in his mental files of _things to examine later_. They've done the preliminary run through of the house and it came up clear of any leads, but they haven't done a deep run yet. Judging by the man's fixation, they should.

The journey back to the Ministry and the interrogation rooms is a silent one. The man, who has still not offered his name, is sullen and glaring and silent. Harry and Draco are both mentally preoccupied.

To Draco's utter surprise, the man walks along side them with little prodding, calmly enters the interrogation room, and takes a seat without being asked.

It isn't until Harry starts asking questions that the expected rebellion occurs.

"Could you tell us your name?" Harry asks calmly.

And then, abruptly, the man spits at Harry. Harry recoils instinctively, appalled. Draco quells the rage attempting to rise inside of him. "I'm going to ask that you not do that again." His voice is calm, even, polite — but there is a deliberate undercut of steel. It isn't a choice. It isn't a suggestion.

"I ain't talking to him," the man growls. "I won't do it, and there's nothin' you can do about that."

Draco and Harry exchange a glance, all questions and answers and opinions, and then Draco turns back to the man and nods. "All right."

Harry leaves the room. Draco assumes he takes a position on the other side of the glass.

"Why don't you want to speak with him?" Draco asks, his voice soft.

"That son of a bitch is the reason my brother is dead. Him and his damn rebellion."

Draco wants to argue, wants to say that Harry never wanted anyone dead, wants to say that Harry feels guilty enough for the deaths that were not his fault, wants to say that that "damn rebellion" is the only reason they aren't bowing foreheads to the floor to a psychopathic megalomanic right now — but he suspects that won't endear him to the man, so he stays quiet on that front.

Instead, he restates the original question. "Could you tell me your name?"

"Gregory Bane."

"And your relation to Phineas Burke?"

"He's an… associate."

"A business associate?"

"Of a sort."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"We're in the same… line of work."

"And what line of work might that be?"

Gregory looks down at his hands. Slim, with tapered fingers. Musician's hands, Draco would say. The hands don't quite match up to the rest of him. He's got broad, thick shoulders. Oft-used biceps. He looks like a man used to barreling through life on pure physical force. But there's a spark of cleverness in his eyes that Draco can't disregard.

Something about Draco's last question has momentarily silenced him, though. And Draco knows, by the length of time it takes him to respond, that his next answer is either going to be a refusal, a half-truth, or a lie.

"…storage and shipping," he says finally.

"Storage and shipping of _what_, precisely?

"That's classified information."

A half-truth, then.

"You do realise that by keeping information from me, you are only making yourself look more suspicious."

Gregory nods. "I am aware of that. You are not what I am most afraid of."

"What are you afraid of, then?"

Gregory smiles and shakes his head. Another thing he isn't going to say.

"This is bigger than me," he says eventually, and Draco wonders why he offers that up, because he didn't have to.

As a distractor, perhaps. If he were the killer, perhaps his thought process would be that setting them on the trail of something bigger would allow him to slip through the cracks?

But Draco doesn't legitimately suspect that he is. If he were, why would he have come back to the house? Why would he have been yelling for someone he knew would never show?

"Bigger than you how?"

But that's all Gregory has to say on that subject, so Draco changes tack. "What were you doing at Phineas Burke's house? You said something about him having 'her' and yesterday being the agreement. Care to tell me what you meant by that?"

"Burke had borrowed something of mine. He said he'd return it yesterday, but he didn't. Obviously. I know why now, apparently." There's a lacing of sarcasm in his tone that Draco doesn't appreciate but isn't worth fighting about.

"Her?"

The man goes silent. He looks down at his hands. Draco figures this is his tell, and awaits another half-truth or another lie.

"He stole her from me." And there's a note anguished grief in his voice.

"Stole who?"

"My wife." A sound that is almost a half choked sob. "He stole her!"

"He kidnapped her?"

The man shakes his head. "He… She… She left me for that son of a bitch!"

But it doesn't match up. "_I know you've got her_" and "_Yesterday was the agreement_" were related sentences on that front step. That they would be a part of two completely unrelated squabbles between the two men… it doesn't fit. It just doesn't quite make sense.

After a moment, Draco stands.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to confer with my partner for a moment, and considering you kicked him out…" Draco trails off and leaves the room.


	50. Chapter 50

_Previously: ""I need to confer with my partner for a moment, and considering you kicked him out…" Draco trails off and leaves the room."_

.

"He's lying," Harry says the moment Draco enters the area behind the one-way glass.

"Of course he is," Draco agrees.

"Draco…" Harry's voice is slow, soft. Draco knows exactly what he's thinking, exactly what he doesn't want to say.

"I know." He turns his eyes up from where he's been inspecting the floor pattern — monotony in vision helps him think. "I don't think there is any other explanation. I've been trying and trying to think of other interpretations for his words, but…"

Harry nods.

"This is so much bigger than the murder of one man," Draco says carefully. "This… it doesn't read like an isolated incident, you know? It's… we may have stumbled onto an entire human-trafficking ring."

"Draco, I don't think… I don't think we should be tackling this by ourselves."

Draco measures the look in Harry's eyes, measures what they are capable, measures the extent of what this could be, and he nods.

He glances through the window. Gregory sits at the small table, his head in his hands. He looks… terrified. And so he should, if this truly is an organisation. They won't forgive even the small bit of information Gregory gave them. He is a dead man if he ever makes it back onto the streets.

Draco nods again, but then he says, "We need to find out what's in that house, first. Tangible is always better for requests than suspicion."

Harry looks like he wants to disagree, and Draco understands why — _time_. But eventually, he nods and they make their way to the Atrium.

.

The first time they gave the house a once-over, they weren't looking for anything in particular. Now, with a clear objective in mind, it takes much less time and yields far more results.

In the basement of the house there is a section of paneling with far more specific warding than the rest of the house. Protective spells. Spells to keep people out, but also spells to keep people _in_. The pair spend almost half an hour carefully disentangling the layers of warding, cautious not to let the entire construction collapse. Cautious not to trigger any alarms.

After all of that, Draco sort of just wants to find a chair and collapse for a while, but instead he levitates the paneling away from the wall. Harry, always the Gryffindor, lights his wand and peers right through.

A scream, high pitched.

Harry's voice, murmuring words that Draco can't quite understand in a soft, comforting tone.

Sobs, small and shaking.

Harry disappears into the space behind the paneling. Draco remains where he is, knowing intuitively that two people would probably be overwhelming. One person is probably overwhelming.

Harry guides her carefully out of the gap in the wall. She leans on him heavily, but Harry, though he is bearing almost her entire weight, looks like he is bearing nothing at all — physically. His eyes look tormented.

She is slim — too much so. Draco could wrap his fingers around her wrist with almost enough overlap to go around again. Her hair is cut short, the red locks coming to her cheekbones and no farther. She is trembling. She stares very deliberately at the ground.

Harry is still murmuring in the same soft tone. "We'll take you to the Ministry, okay? And they'll get you some food and some clean clothes and a place to rest that you can spread out properly. How does that sound?"

She looks up at him through her lashes without turning up her face. Still deferential.

"It is over?" she asks in rasping, heavily accented English.

"Yes," Harry murmurs softly. "It's over. I promise you that. It is over."

.

She eats very little, says very little. She accepts the clean clothes with a simple thank you and a faint smile. She declines the shower in favor of a bed in the Auror wing — a room occasionally used by victims with no place to go, but more frequently used by Aurors coming off long shifts with no energy to make it home without splinching themselves. A room affectionately called the crash room, for more reasons than one.

A paperwork man by the name of Scott Weslayan has a desk near the room, and Harry corners him and asks him to keep an eye on her. He doesn't offer an explanation, and Weslayan doesn't ask. "Vic?"

Harry nods, and Weslayan nods, and that's that. The two of them make their way out of the room and to the office of the Head Auror.

.

Draco knocks on the door with a deliberate calmness he doesn't quite feel, very much aware that this is the person in charge of his career, his future. Very much aware that he has to be even more careful than usual in her presence.

At the same time, though, he is aware that this is the woman who approved his training personally — because there were a lot of people who didn't believe a Death Eater could be an Auror. This is the woman who decided his past didn't necessarily determine his future.

"If it's important, come in. If it isn't, go away please." The voice is deadpan, serious. Draco and Harry exchange a look before Harry pushes open the door.

She looks up from a file. She has the end of a Muggle pen stuck between her teeth, and her dark hair is tumbling out of the style it's pinned up in and into her face. She looks frazzled. But she smiles at them faintly.

"Auror Potter, Auror Malfoy. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Head Auror Summers." Draco nods his head deferentially. "We'd like to request additional pairs be placed on the case of Phineas Burke."

Summers arches an eyebrow elegantly. "You would, would you? Why, precisely?"

"We have been given reason to suspect that Burke was involved in a human trafficking ring."

Her other eyebrow rises to join the first. "What reason?"

"She's sleeping in the crash room."

Head Auror Summers sighs, pulls off her glasses, cleans them on her robes and then replaces them. "I suspect you ought to start at the beginning."

So Draco does, telling her about Phineas Burke's body, about what Avior Burke said about his late cousin's wife, about the lack of marriage records, about the wards being triggered, and about Gregory Bane and his endless glances at the house. About finding a woman in the basement.

She manages to keep a straight face during the telling, but only just, and her horror shows in her eyes.

The thing about being an Auror as opposed to the Muggle equivalent, Draco has noticed, is that theirs is a relatively small community. Big crimes occur less often. Smaller population means both fewer victims and fewer criminals, and though they deal with both Muggle-perpetrated wizard crimes and wizard-perpetrated Muggle crimes, this still leaves them with the crime base of an average sized town, even though they work nation-wide, with only small sub-sects outside the London area.

A crime the size and weight of a human trafficking ring, then, can't exactly be a common occurrence.

It sort of figures that it would be their first solo case, then.

After a few moments of silence, Summers nods. She taps her wand on the desk in a few specific spots and then she folds her hands together.

Moments later, Waters and his current partner, Elladora, come through the door, both dipping their heads deferentially. "Head Auror Summers," Waters says.

"Auror Waters, Auror Moody. Take a seat for a moment." She conjures a series of four more chairs, in addition to the two that Draco and Harry were already inhabiting.

As they sit, Waters looks at Draco with a question in his eyes. A question Draco isn't quite sure how to answer with a gaze, so instead his eyes just say, _'Hang on for the explanation and don't panic.'_

Waters nods, and then a knock sounds.

"Come in."

"Have a seat."

Finnigan and Thomas both look a bit nervous as they take in the collective inhabitants of the room, but after a moment's hesitation and a shared glance, they both take a seat in the remaining chairs.

"Auror Waters, Auror Moody, the two of you are being pulled from the robbery you've been working on and reassigned to the murder of Phineas Burke. Aurors Finnigan and Thomas, you are being assigned to the murder of Phineas Burke. Aurors Potter and Malfoy will brief you on the current status. Dismissed."

She turns back to her paperwork as they slip out, but before Draco leaves she stops him.

"I do not need to remind you that this must be handled with utmost discretion."

"Of course not, ma'am."

Her eyes pierce his. After a moments she nods, waving her hand in a clear sign of dismissal. Draco slips out.

"Can't even manage one case without me?" Waters is grinning as he asks.

Draco smirks in reply, but then he sobers. "This is much bigger than a murder," he says solemnly.

"Our office is the largest," Elladora offers. Draco nods and gestures for her to lead the way.


	51. Chapter 51

Thanks to my beautiful wife Paula, who gave me the date destination for this chapter. I'm honestly not sure she intended it as a serious suggestion, but it worked, so I went with it.

.

_Previously: ""Our office is the largest," Elladora offers. Draco nods and gestures for her to lead the way."_

.

As Draco relates the story for the second time, he watches as the faces of the other four grow more and more somber. He watches the flickering glances between Thomas and Finnigan and makes a mental note to watch the interactions between them — there's something there, but he can't quite pin down what in the brief glance.

The entire time Draco speaks, Harry sits in a chair at the desk and traces the woodgrain with his fingertips. He doesn't look up.

"Do we need a lead?" Waters asks carefully.

"Lead?" Finnigan asks. "Can we just conjure one out of the air? What does it matter if we need one or not? 'S whether we _have_ one or not that matters."

Ella shakes her head. "Not a lead on the suspects, Seamus. A lead for the case. Lead partnership. Somebody in charge."

Harry shrugs. "Seamus and Dean took the call. Draco and I have worked the case. You guys have the most experience."

While Harry speaks with his mouth, Draco and Waters converse with their eyes. Finally, Waters nods.

"Draco and Harry will take point," Waters says. It isn't a suggestion. Draco ducks his head in respect, knowing that Waters is choosing it because he knows they need the independence and experience. Knowing it won't exactly be easy for the man to defer to those who've only just graduated beyond his tutelage. He appreciates the gesture.

"Right, so," Draco says carefully. He's choosing his words even more precisely than usual, trying not to sound… entitled. "Someone needs to interview our girl, but I don't think it should be all of us. Six people interviewing sounds a bit overwhelming for her, at this point."

Thomas nods. "Shay and I'll handle that, if you like."

Draco nods, knowing Thomas has that sort of steady, calming personality that will probably be good for the woman. Finnigan might be a bit overwhelmingly enthusiastic, but Thomas tempers him.

Turning to Waters, he says, "The interrogation of Gregory Bane…"

That's all he needs to say. Waters nods. "We're on it."

Waters and Elladora leave the room, followed moments later by Thomas and Finnigan. Draco is trying to figure out what that leaves for them to do when Elladora re-enters the room.

"You're going to want to see this," she murmurs, beckoning. Harry and Draco exchange a glance and then follow her to the interrogation room.

They don't even have to cross the threshold. Harry sucks in a startled gasp of breath.

Gregory Bane is hanging from his own tie, somehow looped around the inset light fixture.

"He killed himself rather than go to prison?" Harry asks. Waters shakes his head slowly.

"I don't think so. I think he killed himself rather than risk being set free. From what Draco said, his bosses don't take kindly to those who speak to Aurors. Probably didn't even matter how much he told us. The minute you took him in, he knew he was a dead man. Wanted to do it on his own terms."

Harry shakes his head, and Draco doesn't have to ask to know why. He knows from spending seven years in school with the boy. Harry has one of the strongest survival instincts Draco has ever seen. Even when escaping death should be impossible.

The four of them spend the rest of the shift sorting through every detail of Gregory Bane's life, trying to find any hint of how he spent his time, or who they might talk to in order to find out. Finnigan and Thomas return just before shift's end, both looking very drawn.

"Compare notes tomorrow?" Waters asks. Thomas nods tiredly.

Everyone compiles end of day reports and they spell out one by one. Draco finishes his report early, but he stays, resting his head on the back of the chair and closing his eyes. Giving the outward appearance of calmness. Pretending he's not mere hours away from the first date that he's actually cared about the results of in… as long as he can remember, honestly.

His eyes shoot open at the feeling of fingertips on his shoulders. They are alone. Harry smiles at him faintly, and Draco allows himself a small but genuine smile in return.

"Where are we meeting?"

Harry shrugs. "I'll be at the Manor at seven?"

Draco nods, both because he understands the reasoning and because he agrees. Harry beams, and then disappears.

Draco kneads his fingers into his temples, trying to decided if this is going to be a catastrophic disaster or not.

Eventually, he makes his way home. Checks up on his mother — she is up, alert, and reading a book. Draco smiles, and she looks up and smiles back. Faintly, but it's there.

"I'm going out tonight, Mother. Did you need anything before I do?"

"No, thank you, Draco, dear. Have fun." There's that sort of knowing glimmer in her eyes and Draco wonders, but he doesn't ask and she doesn't offer anything else.

.

Draco has absolutely no plans to share with Harry exactly how long he stared at his closet.

Far longer than he should have needed to.

And this, this is what he hates: this damned _vulnerability_, the _insecurity. _He isn't used to it and it makes him feel uneasy, off balance, _wrong. _And he wonders again why on Earth he's doing it, why on Earth he's taking this risk. But he reminds himself that he's already weighed this out, reminds himself that there is no going back from this point, and he pulls the dark blue button-up over his shoulders with steady hands.

Even if he cannot remain calm, he can at least manage a facsimile of it. For tonight, that must be enough.

He forces himself to stop pacing the length of the kitchen like a nervous wreck and instead settles on the stool at the counter, case file spread out in front of him. Pretending to be productive.

For the millionth time, he wonders if this is the right decision or if this will _ruin _him, because he's already losing focus and–

But he tells himself that the only reason his concentration is as skewed as it is, is because this is the beginning of everything and so it matters that much more, and he forces his eyes to read the words on the page, forces his mind to digest them, and promises himself that whatever way this goes, he will not allow himself to be this distracted after tonight.

A shiver runs down his spine as someone crosses the wards. He stands, making his way to the entryway just as a faint knock sounds at the door.

Draco opens it.

Harry looks almost… uncomfortable in his skin. His shoulders are curled slightly, hands stuck deep in the pockets of his black slacks. He's wearing a green shirt — almost exactly the same green as his eyes — and it's more formal than is his typical.

But then said green eyes look up from the ground and meet Draco's gaze and Harry just _beams_, and whatever insecurity was there just… _melts_.

"Hey," he says softly. His eyes dart rapidly across Draco's face, looking for something. He finds it, whatever it is. "All set?"

And the question means so much more than it otherwise would have because of yesterday.

Draco just smiles faintly and dips his head, a silent yes. Harry's smile — Draco hadn't thought it was actually possible — _grows_. "Good."

A breif, semi-awkward silence — which is actually good in that it assures Draco that Harry is as out of his depth here as Draco is — and then Harry speaks again. "Er… shall we, then?"

Draco nods. "And, where exactly might we be going?"

Harry grins. "That's a surprise."

"That's mildly alarming," Draco states as they set off down the drive.

Harry merely continues to grin. The silence this time is comfortable as their footsteps crunch on the gravel. They reach the end of the drive and Harry offers his hand. Draco takes it without the slightest bit of hesitation.

They reappear in an unfamiliar alley. For a long moment, neither of them lets go.

Then, "This way," Harry says, gesturing with his head. His steps are sure. They round the corner, exit the alley, but the street isn't a major improvement. Narrow, dingy. A large building with a flickering sign that once read _Marcos_ and now just says _M r s_. Draco snickers, and Harry grins at the sound before pushing open the door.

The first thing Draco notices is the _noise_. It sounds like a troll thrashing around in a kitchen, between the crashing and the banging and the cheering and the booing. Voices are pitched loud to override the crashing, and Draco almost wants to clap his hands over his ears.

The second thing he notices is the smell, a strange combination various oils — sweat, cooking grease, and another type of oil Draco can't quite identify.

Harry appears to have been hear before, as he takes a moment to appreciate Draco's expression and then makes his way straight toward a counter.

Draco catches his wrist before he makes it to the counter. "What are we doing?" he hisses.

Harry grins. "Ever been bowling, Draco?" Draco shakes his head. The grin grows. "Then this'll be fun."


	52. Chapter 52

_This is going to be a much longer date than I originally intended._

_._

_Previously: [Harry grins. "Ever been bowling, Draco?" Draco shakes his head. The grin grows. "Then this'll be fun."]_

.

He drags Draco to the counter, looks down, and then tells the man a number. The man nods and flops two pairs of shoes on the counter.

"This him?" the man asks Harry, grinning like he knows something. Harry flushes a brilliant shade of red but then nods, beaming.

Draco frowns, feeling his eyebrows furrow, but Harry just ducks his head and grabs the shoes and the man just smiles and says, "Lane 4."

Harry nods and trots off to the left. Draco spends another moment watching the man behind the counter, trying to figure out what he knows that Draco doesn't.

"Coming?" Harry calls, and Draco turns to follow him.

Harry drops the shoes on the floor near a table and turns around, walking toward a bank of little cages against the wall. He grabs a key off a hook and sticks it in one of the locks, then he pulls out a black bag and locks it again.

He sets the bag on the floor near the shoes. Draco feels ridiculously uncomfortable just trailing after him like some sort of lost puppy. He doesn't like that Harry is entirely in his element here and that he himself is entirely out of his. He doesn't like feeling confused.

Harry, though, seems to subscribe to the philosophy that if he doesn't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist. It isn't that he doesn't notice, no, because Draco sees him glance back and catalogue Draco's face, his body movements, and while most people wouldn't notice it, Draco knows that by this point Harry knows him well enough to see that slight bit of stiffness in his motions. But he doesn't say anything, just turns around again and moves to the shelves of round things.

Harry looks at him appraisingly, gaze lingering first on his right arm, then on his hand. He turns back to the spheres, examining them.

"Try that," he says eventually, holding out one of them.

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Try _what_, exactly?"

Harry giggles — actually _giggles_ — and gestures to the three cylinders drilled out of the sphere. "Your fingers go there. Thumb in the bottom one, middle two fingers in the top two. The thumb hold should be a little looser, but your fingers should fit pretty securely. Fingers in first, then thumb."

Hesitantly, Draco inserts his middle and ring fingers into the hole at the top, and then stretches his thumb so that it fits into the other hole.

Harry frowns before Draco even says anything and takes the sphere back. "Your hand shouldn't be all scrunched like that. Your handspan is too big for this ball."

He puts it back and examines a few others before offering a green one with streaks of silver threaded through it. Draco heartily approves of the coloring. His hand isn't all squished this time, and his fingers _seem_ to fit properly.

Abruptly, Harry lets go of the ball and Draco finds himself a victim of gravity. The sudden jerk of weight on his right arm all the way up to his shoulder pulls him entirely out of balance and he topples to the floor.

He looks up with a glower, but it softens into a false one almost immediately at the look of complete joy and mirth on Harry's features. He looks exceedingly happy, and something foreign and warm blooms in Draco's chest and he tucks that feeling into his memory for later examination.

Still. He can't be seen to be going soft. "You did that on purpose," he accuses, his voice scathing. Appalled.

Harry just grins. "And what if I did?"

And Draco can't just let that sort of cheekiness go. He swings his leg out, and Harry tumbles to the floor as well, falling half on top of him. For a moment, Harry is stunned. For a moment, Draco thinks he's misjudged the situation. But then Harry's shock fades straight into a chuckle that Draco can _feel_ as much as hear and Draco cannot help but grin.

After a moment, Harry notices their position and Draco watches with interest as all of the blood in his face runs closer to the surface. His cheeks flush red and he springs up, muttering what are probably excuses. Draco feels his grin morph into a smirk as he gracefully slides into a standing position and brushes himself off. Harry rolls his eyes, rescues the bowling ball from where it has rolled under a bench, and offers it again. This time, Draco grips it, and this time Harry lets it down gently.

He has no clue how it's supposed to feel on his hand. It feels entirely wrong, like it ought not be there, but Draco strongly suspects that has more to do with the unusualness and less to do with the fit, or lack thereof.

"Twist your wrist so that your hand is behind it. No, behind it, not on top of it. Yeah, there. Now swing it back and forth a bit. Does the weight feel right? It should feel like you can handle more — I've only given you 14 pounds — but trust me. After a few games, that ball gets a lot heavier." At Draco's look, he adds, "Not literally! Psychologically, though."

Draco sighs in exasperation and then merely nods. "It feels fine." Not that he has any clue what exactly he is feeling for, so it could be entirely wrong for all he knows.

Intuitively, he flips the ball up so it rests against his shoulder, and he follows Harry back to "Lane 4."

"You can go ahead and set your ball up there," Harry says, gesturing to the strangest looking contraption Draco thinks he's ever seen.

"What _is_ that?"

Harry glances up from where he's kneeling, unzipping the black bag. "That's the ball return. See, you're going to chuck your ball down the lane. What that thing does, is it brings the ball back so you don't have to go and get it.

"Oh. Like a summoning charm?"

Harry looks momentarily thoughtful. "Sure."

"Hmmm." Draco travels down the three steps to the ball return. He eyes it suspiciously, still not entirely convinced it isn't going to attempt to eat him.

He sets the green and silver ball delicately on the "ball return" and immediately jumps backward to ensure that it can't reach him.

Harry snickers as he comes up behind Draco, holding a fiery red ball shot through with streaks of gold, propped against his shoulder the same way Draco had his. Harry drops his almost carelessly on the ball return and turns to face Draco.

"You're adorable sometimes, you know that?" He is close enough that Draco can almost feel the brush of warm air as he speaks.

Draco twists his face into a scowl and thanks Merlin and everyone else who may have been involved that he doesn't blush. Ever. "I am not," he says firmly.

"Yes you are." The words are barely a whisper and Draco unconsciously leans into them, but then Harry is gone and Draco is left cursing the man for being an utter tease.

He's gone back up the pointless mini-staircase and is sitting in one of the chairs, putting on a pair of shoes. He nudges the other pair toward Draco with his currently unoccupied foot.

"How do they know which ones are yours?" Draco asks as he removes his other shoes. Harry laughs. Draco scowls again. "What?"

"They're rental shoes, Draco. There isn't a pair that's _yours_."

Draco drops the shoe that he'd just picked up in absolute horror.

"You mean… _other people have worn these? Many _other people? And now you're just going to put them on? Is that even _legal_? It can't be sanitary. You're joking, right? This is a joke."

Harry finally manages to quiet his laughing into small chuckles. "Yes, other people have worn them. Yes, many. Yes, it's legal. And no, I am not joking."

Draco stares at the shoes in abject horror. He knows his disbelief is showing on his face, but he can't bring himself to care.

"That's… _barbaric."_

"No, I'm pretty sure cavemen didn't wear shoes, Draco."

Draco is actually momentarily thrown by the apparent non sequitur, but then he actually chuckles. This must be what people mean when they dub things "stupid humour."

Harry, who has stood, turns at the sound of the laughter, and his smile is brilliant and bright and Draco has the abrupt thought that he'd like to see that smile again. He'd like to see that smile forever.

He shakes himself. He is growing increasingly maudlin around this man and it's a little bit terrifying.

"Put the shoes on, Draco," Harry says, grinning.

Draco crosses his arms across his chest. "I am not putting those on."

"Yes, you are! You have to! I mean, otherwise…" A sneaky smile grows on Harry's face, and Draco is almost afraid of what he's going to say next. "Well, the rules are if you don't have bowling shoes on you have to bowl in socks. Now that I think about it, I can see shoes just aren't the right course for you. That's all right. Everyone is different."

"What aren't you telling me?"

And the sneaky smirk just grows.


	53. Chapter 53

_This date is going to be much longer than I expected._

_Draco doesn't believe in living in the moment, apparently. He's too introspective, so his thoughts meander. And, of course, I lost control about fifty chapters ago. _

_Previously: ["Now that I think about it, I can see shoes just aren't the right course for you. That's all right. Everyone is different." / "What aren't you telling me?" / And the sneaky smirk just grows.]_

.

Draco takes one step onto the wood without shoes and understands Harry's smirk immediately. Socks and slick wood make for a slippery combination. He glowers at Harry, who only grins in return as Draco sulks back up the steps.

Draco glares at the shoes as though they have personally offended him. They don't react.

Not that he particularly expects them to, but he never really knows what to expect around Muggle things, and he's found it's best just to expect everything, so as not to be unpleasantly surprised.

"I won't," Draco says, voice firm and absolute.

Harry just looks at him, and Draco can see it all in his eyes; _if you don't, we can't bowl. If you don't, we'll just have to go home. If you don't, I'll be disappointed._

Draco sighs. The tip of his wand pokes out of his sleeve and he mutters several cleaning and purifying charms.

He glances up at Harry, notes there is no relenting in his face, and reluctantly puts on the shoes. Harry grins broadly.

The grin, instead of irking Draco further, actually relaxes him a little. Draco has been studying the intricate nuances of expression for as long as he can remember. He knows precisely how to decode and present nonverbal communication cues. And this, Harry's grin, is not a _I win_ grin. It's not an _I knew you would do what I wanted in the end_ grin. It's not arrogant or entitled or presumptuous. It's a simple, _I'm happy because of what you've just done_ sort of grin. Harry is genuinely pleased by something as small as Draco agreeing to put on rental shoes. It's astounding. And somewhat adorable.

_Did I really just think that?_

Draco takes a deep breath, marshals his thoughts back into orderly lines, and spends another moment hoping that he isn't this distracted at work. It could easily get problematic.

"Would you like me to go first?" Harry asks, and this time the smirk dancing across his lips _is_ a bit cheeky. Draco merely nods with a small twist of the corner of his lips.

"The objective is to knock down the pins," Harry informs him, gesturing to the white things at the opposite end of the wooden boards. "That's a lane," he says, gesturing to the thinner sections of wood, bordered by two ditches. "Those are gutters." He points to the ditches. "You don't want to land in those." He smiles, almost a laugh. "Any questions?"

"Not at the moment, no." Draco is too busy trying to calculate. He was decent at mathematics, because it was necessary for Arithmancy, but he'd never attempted to apply it to something like this.

Harry picks up his ball, counts boards with the toes of his right foot, and faces away from Draco. He curls his elbow, propping the weight of the ball on his hip. His wrist curls up, cupping the ball.

He takes a deep breath, and he is a beautiful picture of coiled intensity just ready to spring. And then he launches. His first step is perfectly timed with a push off from his hip . The ball is propelled forward and then gravity grabs hold and it falls in an arc, Harry's shoulder the pivot of the pendulum. His steps are quick, the first two shorter, the last two a lengthened stride. His left foot lands right at the beginning of the lane, knee bent deeply. His right foot lands behind him, extended to the left, crossing the right leg.

The ball lands on the boards almost _gently_, but the angle of it is all wrong — it's headed straight at the gutter. But Harry doesn't seem upset. In fact, he seems rather pleased, which momentarily baffles Draco.

But then something catches and the ball's trajectory curls, coming back toward the centre of the lane. It hits the centre pin almost dead-on and the pins explode in all directions, eventually leaving only two standing — one on the far right, and one almost on the left exterior, but with space for another outside it. Harry turns back, scowling.

"Why are you scowling? That was fantastic. How did it do that? What made it turn around like that? How did you know?"

And Draco has basically lost all concern for his usual impassive demeanour, because… Because it's Harry. Because he truly doesn't believe that Harry will use his emotions against him. And that realisation is a little bit terrifying, because he's never felt that way before. He has never trusted _anyone_ with his emotions in their entirety. Most of the time he keeps them locked away from even himself.

But something about Harry is different. Something about Harry makes Draco _want_ to feel, makes him feel like maybe he's actually _missing _something by locking his emotions away.

Something about Harry makes Draco feel like caring might actually be worth it.

And that is utterly terrifying and sort of exhilarating all at once.

Harry takes one look at the curiosity on Draco's face and he laughs, a deep chuckle. "You're cute when you're confused."

And Draco ducks his head, cursing the pale skin that colours so easily. He marvels a bit at how easily the words roll off Harry's lips. Draco has never been like that. He contemplates every word, obviously, but it's even more than that. If he contemplates a potential compliment, it is based on how he needs the person to feel about him, not about themselves. Harry, it is clear, says the words because he believes them to be true and for him, that is reason enough.

There are times that Draco believes he will never completely understand the way Harry's brain works, because it is so entirely _different_, so entirely _foreign._ Where Draco's mind is crisp and linear and complex, convolutedly patterned, Harry's is layer upon layer upon layer, at first glance entirely simple, but upon second look, there is incredible depth below the surface.

It is fascinating, baffling, and completely unexpected. Because Draco thought, once upon a time, that he understood Harry — though he was Potter, then. Thought he had him all figured out: the Gryffindor, classic Gryffindor, brave to the point of stupidity with his heart out on his sleeve. Fiercely loyal. Pretended to hate the fame, but deep down he enjoyed the attention because he was a Gryffindor, always craving the limelight, doing anything to get it.

Now he knows that isn't quite true. Harry truly loathes his fame, but will use it if he has to. And he _was_ the sort who wore his heart blatantly on his sleeve, but he could be taught not to. Fiercely loyal was a flawless definition — but it almost didn't matter, because as protective as he was of those who mattered to him, he also believed that every life had value, that everyone deserved saving, whether they were one he cared about or not. He would risk his life for someone he'd never met because he had a complete misconception of what his life was worth. Because he believed that every life had value but didn't seem to remember that his own did, too.

He was stupid and brave and stubborn and caring and so much _more_.

Draco watches Harry line up — this time on the right side of the lane — and wonders how on Earth he didn't realise sooner that he was falling for the man.

Harry nicks the pin on the left side of the lane on its left edge, kicking it out to the right, where it only just misses the other remaining pin. He makes a noise of disappointment, but then he turns around and grins. "Your turn!" His voice contains far too much cheer. Behind him, the pins are resetting themselves, which Draco wants to ask about but figures he'll have time for later, as he should probably pay attention to Harry's explanation on what the hell he's supposed to be doing.

"— and your wrist should curl up around the ball, see, like this, and that's what gives it that curve like that, because of the way it spins, and there's some business with oil patterns but I won't go into that. You'll want to start somewhere around… let's try thirty to begin, and that's counting from the right side, where the first dot is five, see. And you'll want to hit somewhere between the second and third arrows, also counting from the right, and—"

Draco is cataloguing all of this and hoping like mad that he's not about to make a complete fool of himself.

He picks up the ball. Lines up on the board Harry tells him to. Bends his elbow, holds the ball with his wrist. Steps, first with his right foot. The ball swings — slips out of his grip, and goes flying behind him, thunking into the tiny wall by the steps, right next to where Harry is now laughing so hard he's gasping for breath.

"Your… face!" he manages. And Draco scowls.


	54. Chapter 54

_Previously: ["Your… face!" he manages. And Draco scowls.]_

_._

Draco wipes the humour right off Harry's face as his next shot travels right between the arrows where he aims it and curls back in a beautiful arc, contacting just between the centre pin and the one to the right of it. A domino effect takes out every pin, leaving none standing.

He cannot help the smug expression as he turns back around to see Harry staring, wide-eyed.

After a moment, though, Harry waves his hand and says dismissively, "Beginner's luck." He leans over, grabs a towel from his bag, and picks up the scarlet and gold swirled ball. He towels off the ball, stating as he does so that the less oil collected on it, the more it will curve.

"And more curve is better?"

"Not necessarily. But I like to towel mine so that it's _consistent_ curve, see, because otherwise the oil builds up over the course of a game, even as the oil on the lane breaks down."

At Draco's confused look, he waves a hand again and says, "Not important."

He lines up — his feet are just a bit left of last time, Draco notes — and he is that same picture of coiled intensity that Draco finds incredibly distracting, and he wonders if Harry does everything else the way he bowls, so entirely deliberately, so controlled, and he rather thinks the answer to that is no. Not from what he's seen. And he wonders why this is different, why _this _is what Harry has chosen to be precise and deliberate about.

The same deep lunge, the same arm extension and then curl, the same angle toward the gutter, the same curve. This time, the ball impacts in nearly the same place as Draco's, but it must not be exactly the same place because after all the pins have stopped rolling, the one on the furthest right is still standing.

Harry scowls at the pin as though it has personally offended him and lines up on the left of the lane, his hip almost touching the ball return.

This shot is different — his feet are angled toward the standing pin, his steps a diagonal across the lane, and his arm doesn't curl at the end. Instead, his wrist comes up flat. The ball rolls at a straight shot toward the pin. Draco waits for it to curl away, but it doesn't; it stays on course and picks the pin off.

Harry's lips curl in satisfaction, but Draco is full of curiosity. "How did you do that? Why was that different?"

Initially, he asks because he is curious. But as a part of his mind listens to and absorbs Harry's answer, a much bigger part is distracted by the expression in Harry's eyes, the intensity, the joy. He looks utterly _happy_, and Draco can't figure if it's the act of bowling itself, the act of explaining bowling to someone else, or the mere fact that Draco actually seems to _care. _

No matter what the reason, Draco finds that it isn't an expression he wants to go away.

Draco replicates his first shot, replicating the results as well. Harry scowls, but there's a grin playing on his lips underneath it.

On his third attempt, Harry finally gets all of the pins to fall in one shot. Draco throws a third shot that falls a little to the right of where he intends but comes back in a bit harder, landing it in the same spot. Harry says something about Draco being lucky it's a "house shot" and doesn't bother to explain whatever that might mean. The scoreboard reads, Harry: 39, Draco: 60.

Harry attempts to explain the scoring to Draco as Draco stares at him like he's grown a second head.

"In what _universe_ did someone decide all of that made _sense_?"

Harry laughs. "No one really knows. We all just sort of go with it."

Draco raises an eyebrow at him in disdain, and Harry laughs again.

"You aren't allowed to beat me, you know," Harry says after throwing a second strike and watching Draco throw his fourth. 49 to 90.

"I'm not?"

A small huff of air that's almost a laugh. "No. I'm supposed to be teaching you; you aren't allowed to win."

And this time Draco understands that this is a joke, not an inherent requirement of the game. He grins. "I've never liked being told what to do," he says breezily. Harry chuckles.

"Surprise, surprise," he murmurs. A small smile plays at the corner of Draco's lips in response.

.

In the end, Harry piles up a few strikes. Draco leaves a pin for the first time in his fifth frame and fouls up his second shot so badly it's nowhere near where he intends it to go. His sixth and seventh frame aren't much of an improvement and by the time he regains his method in the eighth he's lost his lead. Harry wins, scraping by a mere few pins ahead of Draco, and when Harry glances at him, Draco finds that stupid, soppy, sentimental part of him — the part he's tried so hard to keep locked away — wishing Harry would never look away, because there is a something akin to pleased _pride_ in his gaze and Draco's not really sure anyone has ever looked at him like that before.

"That was… yeah. That was really good, Draco."

And this time it's Draco waving a hand dismissively and saying, "It's just mathematics."

But Harry shakes his head. "No, it's _execution_. You can know as much as you want about mathematics, as much as you want about the theory of the game, but if you can't put the ball where you want it to go, then theory doesn't do you a bit of good." He smiles, shaking his head fondly. "I shouldn't be surprised, really. You're always so _controlled_ with everything."

Draco isn't entirely sure how to take that, which Harry seems to sense. "It's a good thing," he adds. "…Usually."

Draco isn't really sure how to take that either.

"Another game, or…? There's this great place for Italian food around the corner, if you like? Or… we could… y'know, just, go… er, home." Harry is suddenly very awkward, very out of place, and Draco notes that he felt entirely comfortable when he had _direction_, and now that he isn't sure what to do next he is entirely nervous.

"Italian sounds good," Draco says, not nearly as awkwardly as Harry but perhaps not as smoothly as he'd like. He's had quite enough bowling, but he's not quite ready to go home.

They round up all of their equipment and put it back where they found it. Draco slips his feet back into his own shoes with great relief — though not before throughly scourgifying his socks, of course.

Harry places the shoes on the counter and waits a moment for the man from before to come over.

"Thanks, Greg," he says, pushing the shoes over. The man grins and takes them, putting them in little cubbies under the counter.

"Any time, Harry." And then, as Harry starts to take out his wallet, Greg waves his hand. "No, no." His grin spreads. "This one's on me, Harry. S'worth it to see you smile like that."

Almost involuntarily, it seems, Harry turns his head up and over his shoulder to look at Draco, a small smile across his lips. As soon as he is conscious of the movement, he blushes and ducks his head, before raising it again moments later to meet Greg's eyes again.

Greg seems to see a question in Harry's eyes, because he nods and Harry's smile turns grateful and he says, "Thank you," in that very sincere way of his where everyone can tell that, for Harry, it isn't just a meaningless platitude that he says because it's what he's supposed to say; he is genuinely thankful.

And as soon as they are outside and the doors close behind them, Draco asks, "Exactly how much do you tell the man who runs your bowling alley about your personal life?"

Harry goes red and stutters out something about Greg being a nice guy and Draco is momentarily stunned by the fact that the person Harry talks to is a man at a _bowling alley_. Intuitively, Draco knows that this probably means Harry doesn't talk to his friends about it, and Draco wonders if Harry is really that unsure about their friendship to think it wouldn't survive this.

Not that Draco has told anyone that he is out on a _date_ with _Harry Potter_. Not that Draco has exactly even told anyone that he is _gay —_ though he rather suspects he doesn't actually have to tell his mother because this is the sort of thing that she just _knows._ But Draco hasn't told anyone because… because he doesn't like anyone enough to confide in them, and he doesn't know anyone who would _care._ Not because he doesn't believe that the people he knows would still hold him in high esteem if he told them.

It's a bit… disorienting.

And he wants to tell Harry that they wouldn't care but the fact is that he doesn't _know_, that there are hidden layers of Harry so who's to say there aren't hidden layers of Weasel and Granger too? He can't presume to know.

So he says nothing, merely walks in silence at Harry's side.


	55. Chapter 55

…This chapter is much more eventful than I'd originally thought it would be, but I like it much better this way.

_Previously: "So he says nothing, merely walks in silence at Harry's side."_

_._

The dinner is entirely different from the bowling in that after they've both ordered and the menus have been taken away they are on a level playing field again. It is a restaurant, neither Harry's territory nor Draco's, and something about the neutrality of it puts Draco immediately at ease. They talk about _Quidditch_, of all things, as they wait for the food to come. It turns out Harry doesn't have a proper team to root for and he's a second-hand Cannons fan — though he says he likes to root for Puddlemere United for the sake of his old Captain, Oliver Wood.

At least Puddlemere is respectable, and Wood a decent player. The Cannons are downright embarrassing. Draco himself is a Magpies fan, ever since he was a child.

Puddlemere won the last League Cup, though, leaving the Magpies in second, which Harry feels the need to gloat a bit about. Acidless teasing ensues until the waitress comes by and delivers their dinner with a smile at their bickering.

Much to Draco's surprise, Harry actually has good taste in restaurants — despite the slightly shabby state of decor, the food is fantastic and fully makes up for it.

Also much to his surprise, they don't, in fact, run out of things to talk about now that they aren't talking about how to function in a bowling alley. They steer the topic of conversation firmly away from work topics — _personal lives and professional lives must remain separate, they are both very clear on this _— but instead they talk about friends and pasts and goals and futures and everything in between and it doesn't matter what is said, exactly. Later, Draco can hardly recall what topics came up, what tales were told. Because, the thing about it is, it very quickly stops being about the words that are said. It's about _being together_ in a way they haven't attempted before.

And it seems to be a way that works. Draco quickly loses track of the number of times he feels a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, eventually stops even attempting to cease its spread across his face.

Moments later — though it must, Draco's logical side reasons, must be longer, because they've managed to consume an entire meal — they depart the restaurant. Draco easily and absently notes the proximity of their shoulders. The gap is much smaller than it was going into the restaurant.

The back of Harry's hand brushes against his and Harry looks down at his feet, makes to move away but Draco stops him by entangling their fingers before he can allow himself to second guess the impulse. The smile that spreads across Harry's face in return is worth it — it's that thousand-watt smile of his that makes Draco want to do nothing but ensure that smile never goes away.

They reach the Apparation point and almost without even considering it Draco grips Harry's hand and they disappear, reappearing on the front step of the Manor.

He contemplates momentarily. Considers asking Harry if he'd like to come inside, spirals down that possible future and decides no — _too much, too fast, neither of us are ready_. Instead, he steps forward carefully, closing most but not quite all of the space between them. His right hand, the one not currently tangled in Harry's, rises, tracing the line of his cheekbone before his fingers land at the base of Harry's ear.

He ducks his head but then hesitates, and in that brief moment of hesitation Harry pushes himself up on his toes and the space between lips is gone. Harry's hand detaches from Draco's, both reaching up to tangle in blonde hair, tugging him closer. Draco's left hand finds the top of Harry's hip intuitively.

It is entirely unlike their first kiss in that neither of them are surprised by it and both are active participants, but at the same time it is similar — they fit together in just the same way, Draco a few inches taller than average and Harry an inch or so shorter, so that Harry has to be up on his toes or Draco has to bend down; this time he bends, though the first time Harry had pushed up.

It isn't rushed or desperate; instead it is tentative and soft as they both attempt to figure out how exactly this works, because they are both too busy trying not to scare the other away to try for much more.

Eventually, the necessity of air becomes an urgent thing and Harry pulls back, his hands slipping from Draco's hair and landing on his shoulders as though that is a natural place for them. Draco's eyes open — he doesn't remember closing them — and emerald stares back, blissful. A smile immediately curves across reddened lips and Draco feels himself automatically smiling in reply.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" It comes out as a question and Draco feels all the air escape his lungs in a huff of breathless almost-laughter.

"Yes, Harry," he says, his tone gently teasing. "We shall see each other tomorrow."

A cheeky grin paired with an impish glimmer buried deep within emerald. "Good." He leans forward, his lips almost touching Draco's ear as he murmurs, "Good night, Draco."

And then there is a faint movement of air and Harry is gone.

Another almost breathless laugh, and then he turns and enters the Manor.

.

"_What the hell, Harry?"_

Not exactly Draco's favourite way to start a shift. He stops outside the door to their shared office. He can see Weasley through the open door, standing in front of Harry's desk, his posture taut and raging.

"Enlighten me, Harry! Because, y'know, I thought we were friends!"

"We are friends, Ron!"

And Weasley is shaking his head. "No, I don't… _Friends_ bother to tell _friends_ when they start dating their _archenemies_!"

Draco frowns. He knows gossip spreads like wildfire, particularly when it pertains to Harry, particularly gossip like this, but that date was entirely in Muggle areas and they didn't stumble across anyone they knew. So how does Weasley know already?

People are staring at the open door so Draco slips through soundlessly and closes it behind him. Harry's eyes flip up to meet his and he smiles, which causes Weasley to turn.

"_You_."

It's actually somewhat impressive just how much venom he gets into that one syllable.

"Me indeed," Draco says mildly.

Ron makes to take a step toward him but Harry stands and catches his wrist before he can. "Don't. Please." The plea is soft, but Ron turns back to Harry regardless.

"Why didn't you tell me?" And this time he sounds hurt rather than angry.

"I didn't…"

"Didn't what?"

Harry seems to be struggling for the proper placement of words, and Draco wants to snap at Weasley to shut up and let him think, but that probably would be the opposite of helpful. Instead, he hangs his cloak on the peg and sits in his desk chair, facing the conflict.

"I guess I wanted to know where it was going to go. Before I told you. Because… because I know you don't exactly approve of… my forgiving him." Harry is staring down at his lap, hands twisting together.

"And do you know? Where it's going?"

Harry glances up at Draco, seeing Draco observing the conversation but not interjecting. He smiles faintly. "Maybe not exactly, but I know now that it isn't going to crash and burn."

The rage flares again. "For God's sake, Harry, you never even told me you were gay!"

Harry shrugs, back to staring at his twisting hands. "Bi, actually." His voice is unbearably soft — the tenor it only hits when he is afraid of the reaction as he says something. "And it never exactly came up."

For the first time, Draco feels like he is intruding on something for being present.

Ron moves forward, sits down, leans across the desk. "Harry, you didn't honestly think I'd _care,_ did you?"

Harry shrugs, mumbles something that sounds like _I wasn't sure. _

"Harry, you're my best mate, okay? And who you love doesn't change that. I mean… Yes, I question your judgement in picking this prat," he gestures with a thumb over his shoulder at Draco, who scowls. "But that doesn't… God. You're still _you, _okay?"

When Harry looks up, his eyes are slightly shimmery. He launches himself out of the chair and around the desk, hugging Ron fiercely. "Thank you." His voice is fervent. Ron pats his back somewhat awkwardly in return.

"Course, mate. Just wish you tell me these sorts of things in advance, you know? I don't really appreciate finding out with the rest of the world."

Harry's laugh is wet as it bubbles out of his chest. "I swear, in the future, I will keep you fully up to date on my social life, all right? That what you want to hear?" He lets go, pulls away, stands somewhat awkwardly.

Ron grins. "Now that's what I like to hear!" He pats Harry firmly once on the shoulder and then says, "Now get to work, mate; you're slacking."

He's whistling as he walks out the door.


	56. Chapter 56

_I don't like where this ends but it's one am and I'm tired and I reached word count, so there it is. _

_._

_Previously: ["Now get to work, mate; you're slacking." / [Ron is] whistling as he walks out the door.]_

.

Harry looks over at Draco after Ron leaves, and his eyes are shining and he is beaming so broadly his face looks like it might split into two fragments.

"How did he even find out?" Draco asks slowly. The question has been nagging him from the beginning.

Harry chucks something at Draco's head without warning, and Draco only just manages to snatch it out of the air before it hits him in the face. Scowling, he inspects it.

A copy of the _Prophet_ with a picture of them leaning toward each other across a small table is splayed across the front. The headline screams, _THE SLAYER OF VOLDEMORT FINDS NEW ROMANCE WITH EX-DEATH EATER._

Draco can feel his expression darken. "How did they even get this picture?"

Harry shrugs. He doesn't seem as upset as perhaps he should — but then, his best friend took the news well enough, and his other best friend… Draco suspects Granger may have figured it out before they did. And Harry doesn't care what the public thinks about him; he never has.

Draco, on the other hand, has been hard wired to consider his reputation and the reputation of his family in every action. His family's reputation may be so tarnished that it is, at least temporarily, beyond repair, but he has made good steps at repairing his own. Sure, there are still those who believe he became an Auror only for the good it does his image, but there will always be those types of people.

Something like this, though, something like this is too easily turned against him. They will say that he is corrupting their Savior, that he is using Harry to get people to trust him, that he will only hurt Harry in the end. They will villainise him, and people will believe it because of his past.

He sucks a deep breath in through his nose and reads the article.

_Harry Potter, famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Voldemort—_

Draco snorts. As if there is anyone left who doesn't know what Harry is famous for.

—_was spotted last night thoroughly enjoying the company of one of Voldemort's well known followers, the Auror Draco Malfoy. The couple were later spotted holding hands as they strolled down the street. Malfoy has long since claimed to be straightening his life out in the aftermath of the war; clearly, Potter is buying it. Potter and Malfoy were partnered together by the Auror department and having been working in close quarters for just over a year as a result. Apparently, close context bred something more than a working environment for these ex-enemies. Sources close to the pair refused to comment on how long the affair has been going on, but upon seeing the picture said simply, "They look happy. Let them be happy, why don't you?"_

_This reporter cannot help but wonder how long the happy couple will last until true colours are exposed and the relationship shatters. But for now, well, for now, they do indeed look happy._

It isn't as bad as he expected, but it isn't good.

He is shocked out of his stoic silence by a hand on his cheek. Harry tips his face up, forcing Draco to look at him. "The media twists things. They are _wrong, _Draco. And the general public might not know you well enough to know that, but I do. You aren't hiding from me, not anymore. There are no true colours to reveal that you have not already allowed me to see."

And Draco can see nothing but intense honesty in those now-familiar emerald eyes. Harry seems to have an intuitive knack for understanding exactly what Draco needs to hear — Draco occasionally has to remind himself that this man is a Gryffindor, lest he forget. Gryffindors are supposed to barrel straight through things, but Harry, Harry has the ability to tread lightly, when he needs to.

Draco has yet to decide whether this implies that there's a bit of Slytherin in him or a bit of Hufflepuff. Perhaps both.

"People will believe it. People want to believe it," Draco says.

"It doesn't _matter_ what people believe, Draco."

"That isn't true." Draco feels the ice in his tone, quickly modulates it. "It _does_ matter, Harry, when you're in a position as tenuous as mine. I don't think you understand what public opinion could do to me at this point."

"Really? _Really_? _I _don't understand what public opinion could do to you? Do you not remember _anything_? I dealt with the entire school hating me at age twelve. I dealt with the ent_i_re_ world_ hating me at fifteen. I watched one of my best friends get sent to the _Hospital Wing_ because of an article written about her. I understand what they can do, Draco. And I understand that the amount of power they have over you is propotional to the amount you _let them_ have."

"So you're saying Granger had control over that hate mail? You're saying she made herself vulnerable to that cursed envelope?"

"I… God, no!"

"Then _it matters_, Potter!"

Silence. It's the first time Draco has called Harry by his last name in… ages. Harry notices. His mouth snaps shut. His eyes look wounded — he looks like a kicked puppy, frankly, and that's more than a little unnerving.

"Look," Draco says softly, dropping his volume several decibels. "I know you want to believe that you can control their effect on you by how much you let it bother you, how much you let it get under your skin. And maybe that's true of their words. But people… People get touchy about their heroes. If they perceive — regardless of the truth, if they _perceive_ that I have hurt you in any way… they will not hesitate to attack me, both verbally and, I suspect, physically."

Harry looks absolutely horrified at the thought.

"They can't do that!"

"It is the life of a public figure, Harry. They can, and probably will."

Harry's head thunks into Draco's desk. "I never asked for this. Can't they just leave my private life alone?"

Draco actually chuckles lightly at that before spelling in for the start of his shift. "If only it were that easy." He stands, intending to make his way to the office Elladora and Waters share. Harry follows moments later.

The minute Draco catches sight of Waters' face, he groans. "You saw it." It isn't a question.

Waters looks incredibly smug. "I saw the paper, yes, and I saw it coming a long time ago. Before, I think, you saw it yourself."

Draco scowls, but Waters pats his shoulder mock-soothingly. "Those that are in love are always most blind to it, Draco," he says sagely. Elladora is snickering madly behind him. After a moment, she balls up a scrap of parchment and chucks it with unerring aim at the back of Waters' head. "Michael! We're here to work, not to talk about the love lives of your protégées!"

Waters actually sticks his tongue out at her, just as Thomas and Finnigan walk into the room.

Thomas claps a hand on Potter's shoulder briefly. "Congrats, mate," he says in that quiet voice of his.

"Rather dramatic way of coming out," Finnigan comments. "But then, ye never did do things by half, did ya Harry?"

Harry ducks his head, but he's grinning. "And what about you two, eh? Where's the front page article there?"

Draco finds confirmation of the relationship between Finnigan and Thomas to be satisfying, if not surprising. The way they act around each other has made him wonder before.

He does, however, find it mildly surprising that both of them appear entirely unsurprised that Harry is dating a man — not surprised by the "coming out", but rather waiting for it. That Potter wouldn't tell Weasley, but would tell Finnigan and Thomas?

Draco stashes the question away to ask Harry later.

Finnigan winks at him. "Nice to be normal sometimes, isn't it?"

Harry scowls. "Can we focus on the case, please? I'm sure I'll be getting quite enough of this later."

"Lover boy is right," Waters says, still grinning. Harry scowls at him very darkly. Elladora chucks another piece of parchment at him.

"Be nice!" she scolds.

Waters sighs, rolling his eyes, but he looks to Finnigan and Thomas to see who wants to discuss findings first.

"Bane is dead," he eventually says. Finnigan gapes; Thomas's shock shows in his eyes. "He killed himself in interrogation."

"How? Aren't those rooms proofed for that? No sharp stuff, nothing projecting?"

"They don't proof them for magic because they confiscate wands and they believe the interrogator should have the possibility of utilizing magic. Few enough know wandless that this usually doesn't matter — those that can manage wandless can only manage the smallest of spells, not anything that can do damage. Like, in this instance, a sticking spell. He stuck his tie to the light and made a noose."

Finnigan visibly shudders.


	57. Chapter 57

_Previously: ["He stuck his tie to the light and made a noose." / Finnigan visibly shudders.]_

_._

"From what we can tell from the records," Waters says after a brief pause, "Bane was a loner. His parents are alive, but they moved out of the country years ago and contact between them seems to have faded out over the years. Both parents were only children, both sets of grandparents already deceased, a little brother who died in the Dark Year. A sister who lives out in the country and outright refuses to talk to him — she might be worth seeking out, finding out why she so thoroughly estranged herself from him. We can't trace him to any friends or associates, which either means he doesn't have any and keeps entirely to himself, or he's damn good at not leaving a paper trail. I, personally, suspect the later — he had a working relationship with Phineas Burke that there existed no trace of."

"So… the only lead we have is the sister?" Seamus asks in summary. Waters nods.

"So please, for the love of anything good, tell me you got a better lead."

"She is… traumatised," Dean says very slowly. "And while she understands that we are trying to help, that does not precisely make it easy to talk about." Everyone nods.

"On top o' that," Seamus says, "I don't think she spoke a whole lot of English to begin with. Had to speak slowly or she'd get this sort of blank look in her eyes like she had no idea what we were on about."

"So what did you get from her? Nothing?"

"I wouldn't say nothing, exactly." Seamus shoots a small smile at Dean. "Dean's pretty good at making people feel like they can say whatever they've got on their minds."

Dean cuts across Seamus, looking mildly embarrassed by the praise. "She has no idea how long she'd been there — there wasn't any way for light to get in that basement. She ate five meals during her stay before a long time of absence — Burke's death, likely. She left the basement three time, but she wouldn't say what for, or why he let her out."

Draco looks at Waters, seeing him exchange a dark look with Elladora.

"Weslayan had a doc look her over," Seamus picks up. His voice is uncharacteristically flat, sober. "Severe dehydration, severe malnutrition, evidence of assault, both physical and sexual."

"Evidence of _prolonged_ assault," Dean adds. "She doesn't remember the last time she was free. She broke down crying at the prospect."

"Do you know where she was before she was at Burke's, then?" Elladora asks — her voice is calm, but her eyes are hard as ice.

Dean shakes his head. Seamus speaks. "She was nearly inconsolable at that point — we couldn't get anything else out of her."

Harry frowns, his eyebrows furrowing. "She's not still in the crash room, is she?"

Dean shakes his head somberly, and again it's Seamus who winds up speaking, rubbing the back of his neck as he does so. "I know it's, eh, not quite protocol, but that crash room is tiny, and the beds really aren't that comfortable, and…"

"Spit it out, Seamus!" Elladora says what they're all thinking.

"We, er, sort of wound up taking her home. She's sleeping in our flat."

Draco feels his eyebrows go up, watches as everyone around him gains a surprised expression as well.

"You… brought her home…" Elladora repeats with a sort of strangled voice. Seamus grins at her cheekily. Dean's expression clearly reads, _this was entirely his idea as usual, and I am just along for the ride because I'm the idiot who fell for this lunatic._

"She seemed rather attached to Dean," Seamus says. "And she didn't look too exited at the prospect of being alone again — she looked rather alarmed when we said we were leaving."

"And is she… alone, in your flat?" Waters asks carefully.

"Nah." Seamus waves a hand airily. "Dean's mum is there with her. She's sort of a miracle worker when it comes to traumatised people. Think that's where he gets it from — that thing where people just want to talk, because they _listen_."

"If she wakes up, Mum will make sure she's all right," Dean says softly — there's a note of undeniable fondness in his voice.

They seem to all come to a mutual decision that if the woman is asleep, they should let her sleep — sleep can't have been easy to come by in her life lately. Instead, they find what they can on Bane's sister. Which isn't much. She lives out in the country and doesn't leave much of a paper trail — she's self-employed, running a mail-order potions business out of her home. The ingredients are shipped to her, and she ships the potions out. She doesn't ever have to leave her home.

In the end, they decide that six people interviewing one woman about her recently deceased brother is a bit too many. Elladora mentions she'd like to check on the sleeping woman, and that perhaps it would be better if Dean and Seamus were present when she woke, so the three of them return to Dean and Seamus' flat, leaving Waters, Harry, and Draco to interview Melinda Bane.

"Well, boys, guess it's just us again," Waters says cheekily. Draco rolls his eyes slightly as Harry grins. One by one, they pop out of existence and appear at the location, just a short walk down the road from her house.

The country side is full of rolling green hills, but there is very little by way of human impact — the dirt road they are on, the house they are traveling toward, and a fence that stretches off into the distance.

When they arrive at the house, Draco knocks calmly on the door. She cracks the door open only slightly, a chain preventing it from being opened any further, and she eyes them suspiciously.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Miss Bane?"

"Depends. Who'd like to know?"

Resisting the urge to smile, Draco flashes her his badge. "Auror Malfoy, and these are Aurors Potter and Waters."

"Potter, you say?" She raises an eyebrow. Draco nods, and she slams the door in their faces.

Waters blinks. "That was… unexpected."

"Not entirely. Gregory Bane reacted similarly to Harry's presence. I'd forgotten, in everything that occurred afterward, but in retrospect this should have been anticipated."

Harry just shrugs and waltzes off the porch, whistling to himself. He looks entirely unaffected by her reaction to his presence, and Draco wonders if that's the truth or if Harry's just gotten that good at hiding his reactions.

Waters knocks this time, sharper. "Miss Bane, Auror Potter has left," he calls. "Please open the door. We could really use your help."

After some delay, she cracks the door open slightly, peers out, and then opens it to the extent of the chain. "What would ye need _my_ help for?" She's clearly still suspicious of them.

"We would like to speak with you about your brother, Gregory."

"I don't know anything about him." Her expression has soured even further, which Draco wasn't convinced was possible. "Haven't spoken to him in years."

"Please, Miss Bane," Waters says softly. "This is not the type of conversation one likes to have through a door.

A frustrated sigh, but she closes the door with less force this time, and the motion is soon followed by the scrape of a chain and the door reopening.

"Thank you."

"Still don't know why you'd want to talk to _me_."

She leads them into a small kitchen that contains a table with four chairs placed around it. She gestures to the table, and there is an almost awkward shuffle as everyone sits — Waters winds up across from her, Draco between the pair of them. Waters leans forward, elbow balanced precisely on the table.

"Miss Bane, your brother is dead. He died yesterday."

Her expression is shocked, though not particularly saddened — but then, she'd said only moments ago that she hadn't spoken to Gregory in years, so the lack of sadness is not entirely unexpected.

"What happened?" She seems mildly curious.

"Miss Bane, do you know what your brother was involved in?" Waters asks instead of answering her question.

She looks down at the table, her fingers lightly tracing the wood grain.

"Greg was… different. And he was always dragging Robbie along with him."

Draco notices that no one so far has actually answered a question properly yet. He'd find it amusing if it weren't so frustrating.

"Robbie was your little brother?"

She nods solemnly. Robert Bane was the boy who died in the war, the one that all the Banes apparently blame Harry for losing.

"What sorts of things did Greg drag Robbie into?"

She shrugs, suddenly even more reluctant. "All sorts, I guess. At first it was just little things. But it got worse. When he started dabbling in Dark Magic, that's when I stopped talking to him. I just… I didn't know who he was anymore. And I tried to at least… at least get Robbie out of there, but Robbie _idolised_ Greg, and I couldn't…"

Her shoulders are taut, clearly holding back sobs. It is obvious she feels guilty over her brother's death.


	58. Chapter 58

_Previously: ["All sorts, I guess. At first it was just little things. But it got worse. When he started dabbling in Dark Magic, that's when I stopped talking to him. I just… I didn't know who he was anymore. And I tried to at least… at least get Robbie out of there, but Robbie idolised Greg, and I couldn't…" / Her shoulders are taut, clearly holding back sobs. It is obvious she feels guilty over her brother's death.]_

.

"What sorts of Dark Magic did he get into?"

"I don't know the full extent of it," she says slowly. "I was only there for the beginning… but, well, let's just say it wasn't a good time to be a creature in our back yard. All manor of things happened to them. All of them died, in the end. And things stopped coming round after that — it was like they knew, like somehow word spread to all the other creatures in the area."

"How did he get involved in that? Do you know?"

"There was this kid. I can't remember his name, but I know when Greg started hanging out with him, he started changing. Mum was pissed beyond belief, told Greg to stop tailing after him, to pick a new friend. Greg was furious, defiant. Fourteen. Of course he didn't listen; if anything, it made him spend _more_ time with the kid. He picked up smoking, started staying out all hours of the night, and we started finding dead animals in the back yard."

"Then what?"

"Then Gregory disappeared. He packed a bag in the middle of the night and he was gone before morning. That's the last time I ever saw my brother. Mum looked for him desperately, but I… I knew. I knew that if Greg didn't want to be found, we wouldn't find him. And he didn't want to be found. Mum was… devastated. And I think we both expected Robbie to be devastated, only he wasn't, he was… weird. Withdrawn."

"He knew," Draco says softly. And she nods.

"Greg kept in contact with Robbie. None of us are really sure why, I guess. I mean, Greg loved Robbie, a blind man could see that, but… Robbie was a kid, and all Greg wanted to do was grow up."

The conversation lulls slightly as Draco and Waters digest her words. "Did you ever know the kid's name to begin with?" Waters asks after a few moments.

Melinda Bane looks thoughtful, which Draco and Waters both appreciate — despite her initially standoffish behavior, she is taking their questions seriously as they are intended.

"I'm not certain," she finally decides. "I don't think so, though. Mum always called him 'that boy' and Greg always just said 'my friend' — 'I'm going to my friend's house' or 'My friend is coming over.' And he only ever had the one friend that he saw on a regular basis, so it was clear enough who he was talking to." There is a borrowed sadness in her eyes. "I think maybe that was part of it. He was lonely. He wanted to belong to something."

"_Something_ being an elaborate human trafficking ring?"

Her jaw actually physically drops. She gapes for a moment before regaining composure and staring at them. "_Human. Trafficking_?" she asks very slowly and very deliberately. "My brother was helping with _slavery_?"

"I'm afraid so, Miss Bane."

"How do you know? Are you sure? You can't be sure."

"I know this can't be easy." Waters deliberately gentles his tone. "But the fact is, Miss Bane, we found a woman locked in his basement. There is no room for doubt."

And Melinda looks devastated. "I knew he was… but I just can't believe…" A gentle huff of breath, and then her eyes flash with rage. "Damn him!" She stands, a quick, angry motion that tosses her chair backward; it thunks into the wall as she begins pacing back and forth. "Damn him!" she repeats. "He's always the only one that matters; he's so damn _selfish."_

And it's abruptly clear that she blames her brother as well for the death of the youngest Bane sibling.

Just as obvious is the fact that she knows little that could be of use, and so, after a few moments spent calming the rage burning in her brown eyes, they take their leave and make their way out the door and down the front steps.

Draco spots Harry immediately, a shadow off in the distance, outlined by the sun, which is making a rare appearance.

"All right?" he asks as they approach. Harry turns to face them. His expression is… complex. The top layer is a smile, raw and plastered on, but with a note of genuineness all the same. Underneath that is intense contemplation, and below that a hint of wounded darkness.

Draco wants to ask, wants to comment, wants to _something_ — doesn't want to let an expression like that just slip by without remark — but Harry speaks before he gets the chance.

"Learn anything interesting?" And Waters starts relaying everything, and Harry's expression smooths into vague interest, and the moment passes.

.

They write up case notes and then wind up staring at each other.

"What now?" Harry finally asks.

Draco and Waters exchange a thoughtful glance.

"Deep check the house without getting distracted by the woman in the basement?" Draco finally suggests.

And, as no one can come up with a better idea, that's what they do.

.

Waters starts by running scans for magical hotspots — areas where there either is or was recently a lot of magic activity. Unsurprisingly, the basement lights up the strongest, but there's also an oddly strong flare on an upper floor. Waters directs the pair of them toward the anomaly and decides to examine the basement.

Following the map of the spell, they wind up in a bedroom. The room isn't particularly large, but it is extravagant — decorated in red and silver and black and gold, tapestries and artwork and statues everywhere. The magical trace is concentrated on the wall at the foot of the bed, on the largest of the statues: a man holding a woman aloft as though part of an elaborate dance, neither of them clothed. Several increasingly complex detection spells later, both of them are staring at the statue in puzzlement.

"Family heirloom? Sentimental value?" Harry finally suggests.

"It would be… unusual, to place that level of protective enchantments on an object that is purely valued for sentimental reasons, but as it seems to serve no practical purpose…"

It's more than unusual, though. It's downright wasteful, the expense of excessive energy to cast that level of spellwork for an object no ordinary passerby would even attempt to steal.

Harry begins spinning around slowly, examining the rest of the room, the rest of the statues. The one protected is obviously the centerpiece, but despite the mess, the others are still in somewhat prominent positions, designed to draw the eye. The tapestries, too, are designed to be seen.

And yet.

Draco watches as Harry's gaze zeros in on the one item in the room _not_ designed to be seen. Tucked behind several other tapestries, this tapestry is smaller, subtler. The color palette is the same as the rest of the room, yet somehow slightly more subdued. It blends in, hides — and that makes it notable.

Harry steps forward, reaches out, but he snatches his hand back before he touches it. "Seems peculiar, doesn't it?" he says softly. Draco steps up beside him. He starts casting a myriad of detection spells all over again. The first several basic spells show nothing — in fact, there is an _absence _of residual magic; the space lacks even the usual buildup of any wizarding dwelling.

Draco weaves the second tier of detection spells carefully, fully aware that there are some configurations that can be rigged where a detection spell can destroy what's underneath if cast hastily. He wields the tendrils of his magic like a fifth limb, delicate and careful, slipping into the space gradually, gracefully.

Somewhere he closes his eyes and doesn't notice, operating purely by some unidentifiable sense.

A web of spells becomes evident as he slides into the third tier of detection spells, a direct probing sort, catered to specific types of spells — a detection spell for protective enchantments, one for concealment charms, others for every sort of spell imaginable. spells for both concealment and protection light up — but anything that took a third tier detection spell wasn't going to be easy to strip away.

He slips through the spells carefully, playing out along the fragile strings with as much care as he possibly can, searching for frayed patches or endings tucked away.

And then, abruptly, there is a warmth there and his eyes snap open to find Harry, eyes closed, right beside him. He can feel Harry slipping along the threads just as carefully as Draco was, searching the ones Draco hadn't yet touched.

Draco wants to ask how the hell Harry knows how to even _do_ that — it's a sort of nonverbal, intuitive magic that usually takes experimentation and development, and yet Harry is easily as careful as Draco himself.

Draco recalls Harry's experience with the wards at Grimmauld Place, recalls how uncomfortable Harry had then seemed with the intuitive magic, and pushes _get those wards checked_ up on his mental to-do list. If Harry is this natural in this situation, there's no reason the wards would yield different results unless they are, in fact, tainted.

Almost simultaneously, Draco finds a frayed patch in a concealment spell and Harry finds the end of a protective spell and the web begins to collapse.

When Draco next opens his eyes, it is nearly half an hour later; as he had predicted, the process was not an easy one. He sits down on the bed with a bit less grace than is typical, suddenly exhausted, utterly drained.

Harry, though, Harry is alight with curiosity as he inspects the tapestry. Suddenly, he gasps. "Oh. My. God. Draco. Draco, we've got them." He actually laughs with delight. "Draco, come look at this! We can collapse the whole ring!"


	59. Chapter 59

_Previously: ["Oh. My. God. Draco. Draco, we've got them." He actually laughs with delight. "Draco, come look at this! We can collapse the whole ring!"]_

_._

Harry glances over, sees Draco's exhaustion, and picks up the contents of the safe. He splays them out on the bed beside him, almost _bouncing_ with excitement. Draco rolls on to his side and props himself up on his elbow. "What is it?"

A mildly impressive stack of papers, piled high on the bed. Harry shuffles through them briefly, then hands one to Draco.

_._

_January 7th, 1999_

_Transfer of 289-f from my possession to the possession of Group Holding Centre B. Reason: End of loan period. Payment: paid upon acquisition, in galleons._

_._

_January 19th, 1999_

_Transfer of 145-m to my possession from the possession of Richard O'Hare. Reason: necessary for labor. House repairs. Payment: due, in pounds. Terms of repayment period: One month._

_._

_January 21st, 1999_

_Transfer of 145-m from my possession to the possession of Scarlett Rice. Reason: unspecified. Suspected personal. Payment: received, in galleons. _

_._

_January 30th, 1999_

_Transport of batch 12-f, 118-f, 176-f, 221-f, 234-f, 265-f, 278-f, 299-f, 315-f, 97-m, 145-m, 187-m, and 234-m from Group Holding Centre A to Harwood Residence. Reason: social gathering of unspecified proportions. Payment: due, in galleons. Terms of repayment period: Two weeks._

_._

Draco grabs for another stack of papers, adrenaline waking him up immediately as the thrum of what these papers mean hums through him. _Names_. They have _names_. Endless amounts of names.

Then, like a bucket of ice water being tossed over him, he realises the implications. Realises that those numbers are _people_, and that those numbers reach past the three hundreds in both categories. Realises that those dates go back _decades._

He looks up at Harry, sure his horror is washed across his face, and Harry's glee numbs as he comes to the same realisation.

"Waters should see these," Harry finally murmurs softly, scooping the papers up into a neat stack and cradling them carefully in his arms.

Draco nods, but when he stands he stands too quickly. He throws his arms out to stabilise himself as his vision splashes back, having gone momentarily dark at the rush of blood to his head.

"Feeling all right?" Harry asks, looking concerned. Draco shakes himself.

"Fine," he murmurs. "Just fine." And he manages to look it as he follows Harry down the stairs.

.

"Find anything?" Harry asks.

"Not anything unexpected. That wasn't the other hidey-hole; there are several more, some quite a bit larger. But other than that, no. You? You guys were up there quite a while for such a narrow area."

"Dismantling shields." Harry says it so dismissively, as though it isn't the reason Draco is currently wavering a bit on his feet. He hasn't felt this drained in a very long time.

Waters nods in understanding, looking at Draco in faint concern. "You all right there, kid? You look like you're about to collapse on us."

Draco waves a hand. "Fine, fine. Just… show him, Harry."

"Show me what, exactly?"

Draco hears the faint rustle of papers, and then absolute silence as Waters reads and understands. His face goes ashen.

"_Six hundred people_."

It's a whisper, broken. And somehow, the fact that _Waters_ is cracking under all this, a man who has already seen so much, a man who is not a bleeding heart the way Harry is, causes it all to hit Draco that much harder. Six hundred people. Six hundred _lives_. People with friends and family and _my God, how many people has this touched_? Thousands.

The thought is… dispiriting. And enraging. And terribly motivating. They cannot undo the damage already done, but perhaps they can prevent any more from occurring, and that is motivation enough.

Although all three of them are terribly eager to sit down with the papers for a thorough examination, they know better. This time there isn't a traumatised victim to excuse their hasty return to headquarters. They have to first complete the search.

The basement yields nothing more than further hiding places, and another careful search of the bedroom reveals nothing. The rest of the house shows no magical flares, but they can't take that as an absolute — they split up and search manually, checking every cupboard and corner for anything even slightly out of place.

It winds up being fortunate that they do. In a commonplace Muggle file-cabinet in the first floor bedroom, there are sheets and sheets of paper with similar statements on them, arranged by date. At first, Draco believes them to be a second copy, a back-up in case anything were to happen to the first. But something about it feels… off. He flips through them, finding January, 1999.

.

_January 7th, 1999_

_Transfer of 289-f from my possession to the possession of Group Holding Centre B. Reason: End of loan period. Payment: paid upon acquisition, in galleons._

_._

_January 19th, 1999_

_Transfer of 145-m to my possession from the possession of Ernest Levinson. Reason: necessary for labor. House repairs. Payment: due, in pounds. Terms of repayment period: One month._

_._

_January 21st, 1999_

_Transfer of 145-m from my possession to the possession of Harriet Pike. Reason: unspecified. Suspected personal. Payment: received, in galleons. _

_._

_January 30th, 1999_

_Transport of batch 12-f, 118-f, 176-f, 221-f, 234-f, 265-f, 278-f, 299-f, 315-f, 97-m, 145-m, 187-m, and 234-m from Group Holding Centre A to Johnson Residence. Reason: social gathering of unspecified proportions. Payment: due, in galleons. Terms of repayment period: Two weeks._

.

The names… aren't the same. Draco's memory is good enough to notice the difference, though not good enough to recall exactly what the originals were, having only looked at them once. The numbers… he sort of skimmed over the numbers while reading the first time, so he isn't sure whether or not those are the same. The dates match up, though.

_Why?_ he wonders. And then. _Oh. Clever_.

_They_ are why. In case anyone ever stumbled across his files, in case anyone ever found a set… _Both_ sets. Something about it seems off, but he can't pin down exactly what. He gathers the papers up in the crook of his arm, completes the search of his segment, and then rejoins the others in the entryway, shifting the awkward load. Waters frowns in question at his stack.

"Nearly identical, same dates… but the names are different."

A moment of silence, then Waters says, "We are not dealing with idiots here."

"No."

Harry wanders in, shifting the stack of papers in his own arms. "No what?"

"These people are not fools."

Harry frowns at the stack in Draco's arms. Waters explains briefly, then asks, "All sections clear?"

At twin nods, they all leave the house, Apparating one by one back to headquarters.

Not long after they settle in the office, Elladora appears.

"Find anything, mates?"

"A gold mine," Waters says easily. Then amends, "That is, as long as we can decipher it."

He pulls off the top paper from each stack, the most recent, and hands them each to her. Draco watches as her eyes flicker back and forth between the two, at first elated, but then her eyebrows furrow as confusion melts across her features.

"What…?"

"Right. Precisely. We found the one in your left hand in a Muggle file cabinet under zero warding, and the on in your right hand beneath a painting under seriously heavy and intricate warding in the bedroom. No way of knowing which one is right and which is wrong."

"…_brilliant_," she breathes, clearly reluctantly impressed. "Tomorrow we can scan all the names, see if they correlate to real people, start from there. In the mean time, our girl woke up. She… damn, Mike. It's bad. It's… she's completely _wrecked_, and Dean… Dean's got her to trust him, but she still doesn't really want to talk to him, and… i think it's a defence of a sort, because if she doesn't say it she doesn't have to think about it, y'know?"

"…Tomorrow?" Waters asks, when Elladora's torrent of words is finally finished.

Her gaze flicks meaningfully toward the clock, and Draco thinks all three of them are surprised to find their shift is over.

By protocol, all evidence is supposed to stay in the Ministry. However, in the last year, Draco has learned that Harry has an intuitive mistrust of Ministry security — for good reason, considering he managed to break in at age fifteen. Brief silent conferral, and all three of them agree that Harry will take the papers home — Waters' security at his flat is suitable, considering no one has any idea where he lives, but it's not comparable to the ancient wards on both Grimmauld Place and Malfoy Manor. The Manor's wards are still being babied a bit after what the Dark Lord did to them, so Grimmauld Place is safer.

.

Even after spelling out and going home, checking on his mother — who is awake and dressed and working on something in the kitchen — and changing into something more relaxed, he still can't get the feeling that he's missing something to go away. Why two sets, beyond to create doubt? And why… why would there be two sets if one was right and one was wrong? What if they had only found one? What if they had only found the right one? The the second set did no good.

It just didn't make _sense._


	60. Chapter 60

_Previously: [Why two sets, beyond to create doubt? And why… why would there be two sets if one was right and one was wrong? What if they had only found one? What if they had only found the right one? The the second set did no good. / It just didn't make sense.]_

_._

By the time he Apparates to the Ministry the next day, Draco is pretty sure he's figured it out. There isn't one right set and one wrong set; that just doesn't make any logical sense. Rather, it must be some amalgamation of the two that forms the truth. Perhaps first names off one and last names off the other, or something to that effect. That way, finding one doesn't tell the finder anything of use, nor does finding the other. He must have them _both_.

So his steps are maybe a little bit lighter than usual as he thinks about how much closer they are to solving this than they have any right to be.

He spends the time before he spells in discussing his thoughts with Waters, who seems to have come to an identical conclusion, as Elladora, Thomas, and Finnigan all discuss something very intently.

The beginning of their shift slips by. Draco begins to feel concern almost immediately — since that first day, Harry has never been late, not even by a minute. Draco shifts and watches Waters note his concern. Their conversation lulls, and the other three notice.

"Where's Harry?" Finnigan is the one who finally asks. He's looking at Draco for an answer, which gives Draco a peculiar sensation.

"I don't know," he says slowly. "He's never late."

Finnigan raises an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you know where your boyfriend is?"

…the use of the term is somewhat jarring. They haven't defined it, and it's the first time Draco has heard the word used in reference to them. It's weird… but not entirely off-putting, so he lets it go. "We've gone on one date, Finnigan. I'm not his keeper."

The words don't show his building worry. _Ten minutes isn't so long,_ he tells himself.

But it is, in their world. Instantaneous transportation means everything moves just that much quicker.

The clock keeps ticking.

Draco resists the urge to fidget. In an attempt to trump the overriding silence, Waters starts a discussion with Elladora about the duality of the lists and the potential relationship between. The conversation is stilted, awkward, and then it fades back into silence.

Draco resists the urge to pace. Twenty minutes have slipped by since the scheduled start of their shift, and Draco is now absolutely convinced _something is wrong here_.

Finally he stands, the scrape of chair legs gratingly loud in the silent room.

"I'm going to find him. If I'm not back in twenty minutes, come after me."

"Hell no," Waters says immediately and inarguably. "You're not going alone. We don't know what might've happened."

It would be illogical to argue, so Draco doesn't try. "Fine. But someone needs to know where we've gone."

Draco looks to the other three, and Seamus and Dean both immediately stand. "We're coming, of course," Finnigan says for both of them. Dean nods firmly.

Elladora remains sitting.

"Coming, Els?" Waters asks.

"After you with the full force of the Department, if I must. I'll be your man here." She stands, moves toward him, standing a half-pace inside his personal space. "You listen to me, Mike Waters. If you run into the slightest bit of trouble, you Patronus me right away. You find the slightest bit of proof that something is wrong here, you Patronus me _that instant_. I know you. I know how you work; I know your instincts. The minute those instincts throw up a warning, you send me a message. _Before you find yourself unable to_. No. Excuses." She pokes him in the chest on the last two words.

She is several inches shorter than him, and he could very clearly take her down if he wanted to. Instead, he looks cowed — not an expression Draco has seen on his face, not in the entire year they worked closely together.

"I _will_, Ella. I'm not going to make that mistake again, all right? It cost too much." The last four words are a broken whisper.

She puts a hand delicately on his cheek. "I know. Just… don't make me lose you, too."

Waters nods sharply, pulls away. A deep breath draws up the shoulders that had unconsciously curved toward her. He looks toward Draco, and Draco is abruptly, jarringly reminded that he is currently in charge.

"Right. Well. Path to the Atrium, fan out, keep your eyes peeled, but… don't look like you're looking for someone. And don't look panicked. We don't need to be panicking everyone else. Failing any appearance of Harry, we'll have to Apparate to Grimmauld Place and… er." Draco pauses as he comes up against the wards. He looks to Finnigan and Thomas. "Either of you happen to be keyed into his wards, or am I going to have to search the house by myself?"

Finnigan shakes his head, but Thomas offers softly, "I am." When Waters looks at him with a question in his eyes, Dean shrugs. "I'm good with broken people. Harry needed someone to just listen."

And Draco remembers how Harry, when Draco had inquired about his growing emotional control, at merely shrugged and said, 'I started talking to someone.'

Apparently Dean Thomas is that someone.

Draco nods sharply. "Good. So Thomas and I will search the house. You two can stand watch outside." He thinks for a moment. "And, failing all of that, we'll track down Hermione and a few Weasleys and ask them."

He looks around at the three men. No one seems to have questions or protests, so he simply nods again and strides out. Finnigan and Thomas automatically follow to his right, Waters to his left.

Draco's eyes flick around at a rapid pace, rarely landing anyway for long, scanning the masses of people that are always present in the Ministry hallways. Messy dark hair gives him pause, but none of the faces underneath are right. Not that he particularly expects them to be. He doesn't think any of them truly believe that Harry is in the Ministry and just not in the office yet. He doesn't simply run twenty minutes late and then show up without prompting. It just doesn't seem likely.

Still, that is no reason for them to perform a half-hearted search, so each of them scan faces intently, looking for a familiar one.

Thy reach the Atrium, and still nothing. Still unsurprising.

Without hesitation, Draco takes Waters' arm and Dean takes Seamus', and both Apparate almost simultaneously to the alley closest to Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"You don't want to look like you're loitering," Dean says, and Seamus nods and stays put. Dean points out which house they're keeping an eye on, then he and Draco set off.

There is silence between them as they make their way to the house, but not uncomfortably so. Draco has the impression that Dean isn't really the sort to waste words. He isn't afraid to speak when he needs something to get across, but he doesn't feel the need to chatter to fill the silence — unlike Finnigan, who chatters almost incessantly. That must lead to some very one-sided conversations.

They both slip effortlessly through the wards, and Draco realises only after he exhales in relief that some part of him was expecting something to go wrong there.

First, Draco casts a quick _Homenum Revelio, _checking for any human presence besides the two of them. His breath catches slightly in his throat when the spell reveals nothing.

Dean, thankfully, doesn't feel the need to mention Draco's obvious… emotionality.

"You want to search top down? I'll start in the basement," Dean suggests, and Draco nods, making straight for the staircase.

He winds his way through the house, through all the places he's never been — he hasn't been anywhere other than the ground floor. He passes a first floor, a second, a third, and a fourth before he finally reaches the top — the attic. The attic is dusty; Draco's footprints disturb it and he coughs, the air thick. The amount of it, plus the stale taste in the air, are enough to tell him that no one has been up here for a long time. It contains only the usual attic artifacts; no Harry, and no sign of where he might have gone.

Draco doesn't linger there. Instead, he descends the stairs to the fourth floor landing, looking at the doors around him in curiosity. The one is unmarked, but the second bears a sign: Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.

It's oddly pompous and self-entitled, but in such a way that it might make Draco smile, on a better day.

Suddenly, Dean's voice weaves up from below.

"Draco? You might want to come down here. You're going to want to see this."


	61. Chapter 61

_Previously: "Suddenly, Dean's voice weaves up from below. / "Draco? You might want to come down here. You're going to want to see this."]_

_._

The note of intensity in Dean's voice makes Draco turn and dart down the stairs without hesitation, pulling out his wand as he goes.

"Where are you?" he asks when he reaches the first floor landing, not wanting to waste time ducking the wrong way when he reaches the ground floor.

"Dining room," Dean answers, and the lack of panic in his voice doesn't exactly stop the adrenaline humming through Draco's veins, but it does at least stop the production of more. The note of flat resignation causes his feet to quicken their pace.

Stepping through the doorway into the dining room, Draco freezes. It looks like a summer storm went right through the middle of the room, tossing furniture every which way and leaving it all behind. Nothing is where it belongs. The walls are deeply scarred, burns and cuts digging into the plaster. Several chair legs are no longer attached to the base. The table — a heavy wooden table — is tipped over and nearly cracked in half.

It is immediately evident that there was a struggle here.

Dean looks up from across the room, where he's inspecting deep gashes in the floor. He catches the stricken look before Draco manages to wipe it entirely from his face, and his own expression softens in response.

Draco feels his face harden. He doesn't want pity. He's handling this.

But he doesn't get pity. Instead, Dean just say in a voice as soft as his expression, "There isn't a corpse. He's alive."

And that is about the only thing that can jar Draco into motion. He doesn't want to think about the reasons why he didn't immediately come to that conclusion by himself, doesn't want to think about the degree to which his mental functioning is clearly compromised. He is not getting himself stripped from this case, no matter how distracted he gets. He won't allow it, and so he cannot allow the distraction at all. He shakes himself, tucks the sentimental part of himself deeper behind the walls in his mind, and begins examining the room's scars for patterns.

It's immediately evident what side of the room Harry was standing on. Harry has an absolutely infuriating tendency to use entirely non-lethal, and usually even _non-injurious_ spells, even when his opponents are aiming to maim. The walls near the door are in much better shape than the others, meaning Harry must have been facing the door.

_Idiot_, Draco can't help but think. He's slightly surprised by the… almost _fond_ tone of the thought, but he shakes it off and continues his examination.

"Damn," Dean murmurs abruptly from across the room, and Draco is beside him before he makes the conscious decision to move.

A smear of blood covers the floor. It's not dangerously large, but not insignificantly small, either.

"No," Draco breathes before he thinks to stop it. He is grateful when Dean doesn't comment; he just looks up and meets Draco's gaze, an intense, angry sort of horror in his brown eyes. Draco is abruptly grateful for the loyalty Harry naturally inspires in people. Dean seems to be as invested in this as Draco is, and that is somewhat reassuring, in a way.

"I think we need to maximise efficiency," Dean says, and Draco understands immediately — a good sign that his brain hasn't flown entirely out his ears, which is reassuring. They have two people standing outside doing nothing right now, and one back at Headquarters waiting for word. They need to search the room — they _need_ to find those papers if they want any chance of finding Harry with any promptness — but they also need to not waste manpower. Every minute counts.

Dean just looks at Draco, leaving the decision up to him. After a moment, Draco nods. "I'll go tell them to talk to Elladora, to find Harry's friends, find out who saw him last. See if we can corner anyone else with ward access to help us search. I'll be back in less than ten minutes."

Dean nods and goes back to examining the floor, looking at the splatter pattern, trying to figure out where the wound might be, what might have caused it. Draco doesn't allow himself to linger, stepping briskly out of the room, but then hesitating as something occurs to him.

He turns back.

"Dean, _access to the wards_."

Dean stills. His face turns toward Draco's, blatant horror splashed across his features. His eyes trace over the attack patterns once more, cataloguing again what they both already know — multiple attackers. At least three, up to five. It's hard to tell exactly, but there's no way all of this came from one person.

Is it actually possible that Harry has trusted multiple people he shouldn't have? When so few have access to begin with, could that many wish him harm?

"Zeus Dearborn is a wards specialist. Tell Shay we need him here as soon as possible. He'll talk to Summers."

Draco nods sharply and turns on his heel, leaving the room once more. This time he actually makes it out the front door, to the alley. He imparts directions — Waters will find Ella and they'll look for first Granger, then the other Weasleys. Seamus will go to Head Auror Summer and request recalls on both Zeus Dearborn and Ron Weasley, and ask that they have at least a decent force at the ready if they find anything.

They depart, and Draco makes his way back to the dining room.

"How well do you know this house?"

Dean jerks upward abruptly, his breath a quick jerk, adrenaline flushing his cheeks. "Shit, Draco, you startled me. You walk on air or something?"

Draco just smiles slightly, smugly, and repeats the question. Dean shrugs. "Well enough, I suppose."

"Would you like to search the rest of the house while I work here? I've not been off the ground floor until today, so…"

A flash of surprise, then Dean nods. "All right. You can help search when you finish?"

Draco dips his head in assent and Dean stands fluidly and leaves the room.

The blood on the floor, after further examination, yields few helpful observations. It's smeared, the tread of a shoes faintly visible, as though someone stepped in it an slipped, but all that tells him is that Harry kept fighting after he was hit — and he didn't need a blood smear to tell him that. It's Harry. Of course he kept fighting.

The scars in the wall are slightly more helpful; with most of them, he can tell what sort of spell caused the damage, and not a single one is deliberately lethal. They didn't want to kill him. They wanted to take him captive.

Who are they? And _why_? Why _now_?

It doesn't seem like the timing can possibly be a coincidence. Not with the value of the papers Harry had in his possession last night. Not when it finally seemed like they might be getting close to cracking this ring.

Finally, he decides the walls of the dining room can tell him no more.

"Where are you?" he calls, his voice carrying through the halls.

"Library," comes the response. Draco weaves his way through the hallways to the library. Dean is sitting on the floor, piles of papers surrounding him.

"Find anything?" Draco asks.

"Maybe." Dean sounds distracted. Draco feels his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

Dean looks up, notes his confusion.

"Not the files themselves, but..."

Draco takes a few steps forward, trying to make sense of the stacks. Dean passes him a sheet without word.

At first glance, the paper looks like it's covered in gibberish. Words sprawl in seemingly random order. Not just words — names. After he continues to stare, patterns begin to emerge. The names are paired off, clusters of four.

Harry is cleverer than Draco gave him credit for. Not only did he manage to make his notes look absolutely worthless, he must have hidden his notes somewhere other than the location of the rest of the stacks. Not only that, he hid them exactly where they wouldn't be noticed — _in the middle of other paperwork_.

Their best chance of finding Harry is following these names in an attempt to find the trading ring. Draco still cannot believe the timing is a coincidence; though Harry has an unnervingly high number of people who'd like his head on a silver platter, not many of them have a sense of urgency.

"FILTH. SCUM. NOT WORTHY TO WALK THESE HALLS. HOW DARE YOU THINK YOURSELF ENOUGH TO—"

"OH, SHUT UP."

Dean grins. "That'll be Hermione, then. In the library, Hermione!"

Moments later, Granger walks into the room. Her expression is familiar, though it takes Draco a moment to place it, since it's been years. Her face looks exactly the same as it did near the end of their third year — moments before she'd reeled back and smacked him in the face. It's intense and furious and protective and motivated.

"So," she says. "Are we going to find him, then?"


	62. Chapter 62

_Previously: [Moments later, Granger walks into the room. Her expression is familiar, though it takes Draco a moment to place it, since it's been years. Her face looks exactly the same as it did near the end of their third year — moments before she'd reeled back and smacked him in the face. It's intense and furious and protective and motivated. / "So," she says. "Are we going to find him, then?"]_

_._

Granger is, unsurprisingly, entirely no-nonsense. Dean catches her up on what they know and what they don't, and she immediately replicates their source of notes, creating five copies, stashing the original right where it was, giving one to each of them, hiding one, and tucking another in her pocket — "for Ron."

"Did anyone search the rest of the house for the original notes?"

Heads shaking.

"All right. I'll do that. You two start sorting that into something we can sort through. …I don't know how you'd alphabetise, given there are two choices for each, but you can figure something out."

And she slips out and up the stairs.

Draco stares down at the mess in front of him before grabbing a massive stack of parchment and setting it all out on the floor. "If we alphabetise by last name and put each pair of first names with each last name — separating the quads by last name, basically — and then we can link the pairs, so that tapping one will make the corresponding set light up, that should work best, right?"

Dean looks confused, so Draco taps a quad on the paper. "Like this. Scarlett Rice, Harriet Pike. File it under Scarlett Harriet Rice and Scarlett Harriet Pike, then link the two."

Understanding lights Dean's eyes, then contemplation. "We should keep the primary name as the one currently paired with the last name, though. Scarlett Harriet Rice, Harriet Scarlett Pike. That way when we find the trend it should be consistent." Draco nods in agreement, and then says, "We should include dates, too. More recent entries are more likely to yield results." The dates are labelled in small numbers under the name sets on Harry's note page.

Dean nods and the two of them descend into silence as they work. Dean doesn't feel the need to chatter incessantly, which Draco appreciates. He charts names methodically, expanding the parchment when the gaps he leaves aren't big enough, recording and ordering and linking each set with careful precision. He manages to lose himself in it, barely, floating in a state of sub-awareness where letters are all that matter and there isn't head space for anything else.

The door crashes open with a bang, yanking Draco out of his head.

"Hermione!" And it's clearly Weasley.

"She's upstairs, Ron!" Dean calls, and thunderous footsteps ascend the staircase. Draco grimaces and stretches, popping his spine. Dean flashes him a look of sympathy and then takes his parchment, beginning the process of compiling one list from the two.

Desperately needing to stretch his legs, Draco gestures with his head toward the stairs. Dean just nods absently, tapping names and dragging them around with his wand, double checking to ensure all the pair links are preserved.

Draco intends to find Granger and ask what she's found so far, but he stills as he finds her, losing the urge to interrupt. Ron has his arms wrapped tightly around her and she's clinging to him tightly. In a low voice that Draco can only barely hear, Weasley murmurs assurances. "—_will_ find him, Hermione. Look at who we've got on this case already. Between Dean and Seamus and you and me and Waters — you heard him talk about Waters, you know Harry seems him at next to godlike — and, God, even _Malfoy_, because much as I may not trust the ferret, I'd have to be blind to miss the way he looks at Harry, and we both know how motivating that can be, and… Hermione, we will find him. We will find him and we will bring him home."

Draco feels immediately intrusive, and despite his curiosity about the messy room, he turns and slips away.

Dean looks up when he comes back into the room, but Draco just shakes his head and picks the parchment back up, starting on a fresh sheet of parchment as Dean continues to compile. He notices as he does so that every date is recent — they're all within the last five years —and he realises that Harry didn't note all of the names. Just the ones that stuck out to him. He must have started recent and then begun working his way backwards.

Draco wonders if he had some sorting criteria or if he just used every name set starting with the most recent. He wonders if Harry picked out the important names or if he just went at it at random. Wonders if Harry had time to flip through and find recurring names.

Wonders how much time Harry had at home before they came. And that leads to dangerous thoughts, thoughts about Harry fighting like hell, thoughts about where he is now, what he must be feeling, thinking. What they could possibly be doing to him.

Draco shudders, shaking off the mental image and trying to submerse himself once more in the sorting, but he can't regain his earlier focus, so he's grateful for the distraction the knock on the door serves.

Zeus Dearborn, a short, blonde man with an easy smile, takes one look at him and says, "Mate, these wards are shot to shit."

Slightly more colorful than Draco was expecting right off, but Draco served under Michael Waters for a year — he's no stranger to profanity, nor an abrupt manor of speaking.

A cold chill sneaks down the back of his neck at the words though. "Recently?"

Zeus shakes his head. "Recently shredded, yeah. But the foundation has been rotting out for years, and no one has bothered to fix it. That's how they got in so easily. Just tore right through the damn things."

Draco remembers wondering about Harry's wards, remembers seeing Harry struggle to tailor them and wondering.

A block of guilt settles low in his stomach. He should have said something. Called someone in sooner. Then this wouldn't be happening.

He jumps and whirls around angrily after a hand hits the back of his head. Dean stands there, glaring at him. "Don't. Don't do that. That's not helpful. It's not going to get him back."

Draco shoots him a questioning look, trying to figure out how Dean seems to have guessed his thoughts. Dean shrugs. "Guilt is a natural thing. It's also a paralytic. I know you pride yourself on emotional control; now would be the time to use it."

Painful as it is, Draco nods. Dean is right. No matter how convinced he may be that he could have prevented this, it does him absolutely no good to dwell on it now.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sudden entrance of both Waters and Elladora, Waters clapping Zeus on the back as he passes. "Find anything, sky-boy?"

Zeus scowls at the nickname. "Just some tatters of wards that weren't much to begin with — surprising, given the ownership," he says. "And I am _one year_ younger than you, so I still don't think you have the right to call me that, _Mikey_."

A flash of amusement flickers in Waters' eyes at the response, but then his expression quickly sobers. "Definitely sabotage, then?"

Zeus nods seriously. "I'm afraid so, mate." He steps forward, puts a hand on Waters' shoulder. "Look, Mike. I know I can't even begin to imagine how this feels, and I'm not gonna tell you it'll all work out all right, because I know you hate it when people say shit they can't ensure, but, man, you've got the best people I know on this. For God's sake, you've got _you_, and the kid you trained, so I'm sure he's some sort of genius, if they put him with you, and you've got tons of people who, if you say jump, will say, _how high?_ You'd have to be some special brand of stupid to think you could kidnap _Harry Potter_ and get away clean. Yeah?"

Waters visibly draws himself up, breathing in deeply and holding it there for a moment. "Yeah," he says finally.

Zeus nods sharply, and goes to turn away, but then he hesitates. "You want me here, Mike? I was running a robbery in Diagon Alley when they called me in — said I was just for the wards, but that's an easy handoff, and this… is a much bigger pile of shit."

"I think we're all right, Z. Thanks."

His words say no, but his body language says yes.

Zeus nods again. "Right then. I'll stay."

A small smile flickers across Waters' face, and he doesn't protest. "Thanks," he says quietly instead.

And it suddenly makes sense. The level of concern, which had initially baffled Draco — Waters handles everything with calm collectedness: it's one of the things that Draco most respects about him — relates to the story Waters doesn't like to tell. To the partner he lost. Draco can already see there is a massive difference between losing a fellow Auror and losing a _partner_, and a Trainee is a sort of partner, in a lot of ways.

This is an unwelcome reminder of a still aching wound for him.

Even as one segment of his brain panics, another segment wallows in guilt, a third is concerned they should be doing more, a forth is curled up in the corner chanting Harry's name like a mantra — even under all that, Draco still has the presence of mind to find this revelation of dynamics intriguing.

Not intriguing enough to linger, though. He returns to his lists.


	63. Chapter 63

_AN: I LOVE YOU ALL. We passed 600 reviews! *happy dance* (and, er, sorry? Don't hate me!)_

_Previously: "Draco still has the presence of mind to find this revelation of dynamics intriguing. / Not intriguing enough to linger, though. He returns to his lists."_

.

"You should sleep."

Draco startles at the voice, his gaze darting up from the piles and piles of parchment sprawled all over his desk. He's tracking names through the system, the _systems_, both magical and muggle, trying to find a place to start. Trying to unravel the web.

"Granger?"

"Call me Hermione, please. Look, your shift ended over six hours ago. I know you want to find him, but working yourself into oblivion isn't going to help. Everyone else went home. It's past midnight. Go home and sleep."

"Why are you still here?"

"I'm not. I'm back, actually. I work odd hours. Took a several hour long nap, so I'm wide awake." She seats herself across from him, naturally and without invitation. As though she belongs there. "I know you feel helpless, Draco. I know you feel like doing this is the only way to be useful, and it _is_ undeniably useful. But you aren't going to be any use when you collapse from exhaustion. They won't take you with on an extraction if you haven't slept in days."

Draco knows that. Knows he should take her words into account and sleep.

He also knows that he won't be able to. That if he makes the attempt, he will lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as names run through his mind at no less than the current speed. His mind will protest the lack of progress, reminding him again and again and again that Harry is out there, likely in the hands of _professional slave traders_, and God only knows what they're doing to him. Reminding him over and over that he should be helping, that he should be making progress, that staring at the ceiling and attempting to sleep do Harry no good.

He can't bear it. Decreased mental functioning notwithstanding. He can't.

He must be more tired than he is estimating, or Granger is more intuitive than he's previously given him credit for, because somehow she senses the track of his thoughts. "Look. I know it's hard to walk away from this right now. But you have to trust in Harry to keep himself alive until we get there."

Draco is struck by the sudden urge to drop his head into his hands and sigh heavily, but he resists.

Granger catches something, though, whether it is a change in expression or some minuscule action that Draco himself doesn't quite register. She leans forward, her eyes alight with some sort of knowledge. "God, you really care about him, don't you?"

The statement — for while it is phrased as a question, Draco easily concludes that it is not one — startles Draco enough that his gaze jerks upward from where he's been examining his hands, and he catches her eyes.

She smiles. "It's not a bad thing. I'm just… a bit surprised, is all."

When the words in his throat finally come unstuck, they are hoarse. "As am I."

She seems startled by his honesty. Perhaps he would also be, but for the fact that he sees no reason to hide this particular fact. He did not expect… _Harry_. A lot of things to do with Harry. He did not expect… he isn't even sure he can quantify what exactly he didn't expect. All of it. Harry himself, and Draco's reactions to him. He had thought, before all of this, that he understood Harry, that he had him pegged, had him all neatly put in a box.

Then they were assigned to each other, and Harry defied his expectations time after time after time, and Draco rewrote his version of Harry over and over until he finally stopped being a near-constant enigma and Draco came to the abrupt realisation that the version of Harry he landed on was a person he rather liked.

He never expected to fall for Harry. He never expected to be all right with dating the hero, knowing he would be villainised for it. He never expected to care so much.

Yet… yet here he is, past midnight, sitting in his office _missing_ it's other occupant, staring at paperwork until the names blur, trying to find a way to locate the man he is abruptly realising that he doesn't want to live without.

It is a jarring realisation. He knew already that he found Harry fascinating, knew that something about the man drew him inexplicably in, knew he _cared_ in a way he'd never meant to. He hadn't known how deeply he was involved. Hadn't known the permanence of it until Harry was gone and it felt like there was a hole in his chest and something was missing.

He is startled by the touch of a soft hand at his cheek. "Go home, Draco. Sleep. You'll focus better. You can better help him if you're rested."

"There is no _time_."

"Trust him. Trust in him the way I can assure you that he is trusting in you. You can only be what he needs if you are rested, Draco."

He looks down at the parchment in front of him: lists and lists of names, files, everything. He's been searching for each variant, combing delicately through the records, setting aside the files that match any variation.

The names swim in his vision, and that is enough to tell him that no matter how painful it is to admit, Hermione is right. He needs to sleep if he wants to be of any help.

He stands, and he staggers a step. She is right there — she catches his elbow and doesn't let it go. He gives her a look, and she just shrugs. "I'm making sure you actually go home, all right? Because I wouldn't be surprised if you told me you were going to and then snuck back in to compare names."

Too tired, his mind too occupied, Draco cannot form a coherent argument.

Surprise washes over him when she doesn't let him go at the Apparation point. She keeps hold of his elbow and pops them both out of existence.

.

Draco is not tired enough to be oblivious to the look that washes over Hermione's face at her first glimpse of the Manor. A shudder wracks her figure as she lets go of his arm and ducks her gaze.

As a general rule, Draco tries not to think about the things that happened in the Manor — the things that he did as well as the things that others did. Harry's utterly unaffected demeanor when he spends time here is settling, and that helps.

Draco forgets, sometimes, that not everyone is like Harry. Not everyone can so easily shake off a past that should scar deeply — not to say that Harry isn't scarred. Only that he refuses to let those scars define him, by sheer stubbornness. He faces his relatives every other month and is nothing but polite. He stands in the house his archenemy ruled, in the place where his friends were tortured, where one of them _died_, and he shows no visceral reaction.

Hermione, on the other hand, wears her scars on the surface.

"You don't have to stay."

She looks up at him, her gaze avoiding the house. "I do not blame you."

Her words strike him in the chest as though a physical blow. He is astonished at her ability to cut straight to the heart of it.

Too tired to censor what he normally might, he says what instinct tells him to. "I… Thank you."

She nods sharply, then says, "I'm going to begin tracking down the proper Muggle records." She turns, but he stops her.

"Granger." She stills. He hesitates, but now that he's stopped her, he has to say something. "…Thank you. For…"

And she seems to understand, despite the fact that he can't quite find the words for what he wants to impart. She turns her head over her shoulder to glance at him. After a long moment, she nods, and then she disappears with a pop.

Draco sighs heavily, but he knows she's right. The first priority, no matter how difficult it's going to be to achieve, is sleep. He treks up the path, his limbs heavy, his mind still whirling, still attempting to find patterns in words that are no longer in front of him.

He unlocks the door quietly and enters the Manor, leaving his shoes in the entryway because he's too tired to bother at the moment. As he does, though, he is struck by the niggling sensation that something is wrong. Something is out of place. Something more than shoes where they shouldn't be.

At first, he can't quite place what it is. His exhausted brain outright refuses to properly observe the world around him — it is his unconscious mind, not his conscious one, that noted the discrepancy, and he can't quite catch whatever it is as a conscious train of thought.

Then he realises.

The light is on in the kitchen.


	64. Chapter 64

_**AN: **__I had a reviewer ask for Harry's point of view — honestly, before that I hadn't planned to, and have no current inspiration for it. So my question is: are a lot of you looking for that? Because if you are, I can try to make it happen?_

_This chapter is dedicated to CatchingCraziness, for being the only one to figure out why there was a light on in the kitchen :) Well done, darling!_

_._

_Previously: "The light is on in the kitchen."_

_._

He makes his way slowly down the hallway. His steps are slow, cautious, but quick. His wand is up immediately. Wandlessly, he reaches out with his senses, checking the wards. They seem stable.

He peers carefully around the door. The figure seated at the counter casts a frail but familiar silhouette.

"Mother?"

Her gaze snaps up to face him. "You're home!" It's tinged with surprise and relief and something else he can't quite recognise.

"I… Mum, what are you doing up?"

She looks at him like the answer to that question should be blatantly obvious. "You didn't come home, Draco. You always come home, even when you go somewhere else after work. I was… worried."

Warmth spreads slowly through him. It has been too long since his mother has actually cared where he was. The warmth is followed by a chill as he realises why he didn't come home, the reason why she became concerned in the first place.

He sinks into a seat across from her.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to worry you." He knows exhaustion is obvious in his figure but he can't bring himself to care. It's just his mum.

Her voice goes soft. "Draco, what happened?"

Draco doesn't know how to explain, exactly. Doesn't know if she's seen the Prophet recently, doesn't know how much she even knows. Doesn't know if she knows what Harry means to him.

Doubtful, but… his mother has always had a knack for knowing things she probably shouldn't be able to know.

He decides that the best method is to start at the beginning.

"I… You know that Harry and I are partners." It's almost a question, but not quite.

She smiles fondly as she nods.

"Well… erm." He's not sure what it is about his mother, but she's always had the ability to reduce him to a stuttering mess whenever he tries to tell her something serious. "That… doesn't apply in a strictly professional sense any longer."

The smile stays. "I know, baby. I think I've known for longer than you have."

Draco blinks at her blankly. "…All right," he says after a moment, taking that in and then promptly setting it aside as currently unimportant. "Well. Harry was kidnapped today."

The smile slips quickly away. "…How?"

Draco feels the weight settle into his bones, the slump in his stance becoming more prominent. "The wards at his residence were… insufficient."

He hears the rustle of her movement, but he does not bother to lift his head as she sits beside him. Her arm wraps around his shoulder; he nearly startles. Typically, she is not physically affectionate.

The war has changed her. Just as it has changed them all, it has changed her. He suspects it is the knowledge of what she can so easily lose that has wrought this particular change in her.

"I'm so sorry, baby."

And her words, the soft pitch of her voice, the feel of her arms around his shoulders, and his utter exhaustion together create the perfect storm. Draco falls apart.

Stress and worry and fear crash through him in waves; his shoulders shudder with the force of it. At first, he doesn't even realise that he is crying, until he drops his head in his hands and his cheeks are damp.

Her arms tighten around his shoulders as she murmurs nonsensical words. The pitch of her voice is soothing, the melody calm, and he eventually feels his shaking begin to quiet.

Terror still nags at the back of his mind: worry, too. But mostly, all he feels now is drained.

"Come with me, baby." She helps him gently off the stool and leads him — despite his bleary protests that he needs no assistance — to his room. She changes his clothes into pyjamas with a flick of her wand, cleans his teeth with another. Much to Draco's surprise, she actually goes so far as to _tuck him in_, pulling the blankets up to his chest. She kisses his forehead softly.

"We'll find him tomorrow, baby. For now, you must sleep. Rest, for you will need your strength."

The lights go out with another flick. She closes the door behind her.

.

He wakes.

There is no moment of relief, no crashing realisation. He awakes with the feeling of dread in his stomach and the knowledge that he must move. He must work. He must progress.

He pulls himself out of bed, knowing the amount of sleep he's obtained is not sufficient, knowing also that it is enough to keep him moving for another day, and that's all he has time for right now. He changes back into work appropriate clothing with a flick of his wand, then casts a Neatening Charm and a Refreshing Charm in place of his usual shower. He spares a moment to take a deep breath, closing his eyes and holding it for a few seconds. _The calm before the storm._

That brief moment is all he allows himself. He leaves his room, make his qay quickly to the kitchen, grabbing an apple and having no intention of stopping.

His mother sits again at the kitchen table. She is impeccably dressed, her hair pulled away from her face. She looks up from the scroll she's been reading, sees him, and gracefully dismounts the stool.

"Good morning, Mother." Draco does not allow his uncertainty to show in his tone, but he senses that she observes it despite this.

"Good morning. I assume you intend to depart promptly?"

Draco nods, already itching to leave, not to delay.

"Very well."

But when he turns to leave, she steps after him. Intuitively, she senses his question and responds to it before he can even decide how to phrase it. Before he has even stopped moving.

"I'm coming with you, of course. I can help."

"Mother, I—" Draco begins, unsure of the legality of a civilian assisting in an Auror's case, but she cuts him off.

"That was not a suggestion. I have a different perspective and you know it."

Draco cannot dispute the logic of her reasoning, and he finds the thought that she wants to help immensely comforting — it is another clear step toward improvement, as well as a very blatant sign of her approval of his… relationship, which he was unsure he would obtain.

So he doesn't try to protest; he simply ducks his head and says, "Thank you, Mother." Then he crosses the border for the wards and pops out of existence, knowing she will follow right behind him.

They appear in the Atrium of the Ministry, and Draco's mother seems to understand his desire for expediency, because she easily matches his brisk pace. On a guess, Draco heads straight for Waters' office — a good guess, as Waters, Elladora, Thomas, Finnigan, both Ron and Ginny Weasley, and Granger are all collected there.

His contemplation about the potential illegality of civilians goes out the window at the sight of Granger and the smallest Weasley.

They are all massed around the desk. Waters spares a half moment to look up at him. "Names and addresses," he explains, not wasting words or time. "Granger compiled it last night — all the matches in the muggle records. Color coded based on which names were first on which sheets. Given the frequency of matches in one direction, we think those are right and the others are coincidence, so that narrows our pool. We still have twenty names on this list, and that's just from the Muggle side."

"I'll work on sorting out the remaining names. Ron will work with me to track them down, since he understands the Wizarding system intuitively in a way I don't." Hermione doesn't wait for someone to assign her a task; she plays to her strengths. She scoops up the rest of the paperwork, leaving them with the list of names and addresses, and steps purposefully out of the room. The older Weasley just shrugs and follows her without question.

"What do we have for manpower?" Draco's mother asks, and the entire room turns to look at her in surprise.

Finally, Elladora just turns to Draco and says, "Explain."

Draco tips his head in a motion that would, on anyone else, probably amount to a shrug. "She said she could offer a different perspective. She's not wrong."

And that is that. Waters turns to Narcissa and says, "Summers has granted us what essentially amounts to, whoever the hell we need. She made this case Priority Alpha, because of the scope of the crime and the fact that they kidnapped one of our best Aurors and the man our world reveres. But we have to be clever about it — we can't pull everyone from their shifts, and we can't leave the streets empty."

Narcissa nods. "So the best method would be to run preliminary reconnaissance on as many places as possible — probably in pairs — and then regroup and focus larger groups in the places that merit it."

Waters looks at her appraisingly. "I see where he gets it. Yes. That's exactly what we'll do."


	65. Chapter 65

_Previously: Waters, to Narcissa. ["I see where he gets it. Yes. That's exactly what we'll do."]_

.

AN: The general consensus seemed to be that you guys would like a Harry's perspective as long as it doesn't give anything away, so here it goes :)

.

_[outtake –– Harry James Potter]_

Everything hurts. His mind claws its way to consciousness even as every fibre of his body protests, desiring nothing more than to sink back down into oblivion, to forget about the pain.

But there's a nagging sensation at the back of his mind, as though there is something urgent that he needs to know. Everything is a bit fuzzy, hazy. He can't firmly grab hold of anything in the landscape of his mind.

He has the fleeting thought that this haziness is a very, very bad sign. He is thankful for the thousandth time for whatever sense of stubborn stupidity it is that always comes in handy at times like this, as he methodically works to clear the fog from his mind and attempt to piece together what happened.

The pieces drop in non-chronologically — a flash of a wand fight, an overabundance of names, sleep heavy eyelids, the case about human abduction.

A string of uncharacteristic profanity flits through his mind as the puzzle pieces begin to form a picture. Blearily, he forces his eyes open, needing to solve at least some of the unknowns in this puzzle.

The cell is small, dingy. The floor is stone, the walls stone as well, all except the door, which is wrought-iron bars. A small bed is bolted to the floor in the back corner. He is lying atop the thin sheets that cover it. He gets the impression that perhaps he should be cold, but an unnerving numbness has seeped into his bones.

He rolls off the bed and his legs collapse like a sack of potatoes. He cannot help the loud exhalation of air as his aching body collides with the floor. After catching his breath, he tries once more to stand.

He can prop his legs up well enough, but the moment he attempts to put any sort of weight on them, they crumple to the ground. The sounds of his struggles alert the guards, which, in some ways, answers a lot of questions he hadn't yet bothered to ask.

A man he doesn't recognise approaches the bars. He has dark hair flecked through with a fair amount of grey. He wears a suit, and the cheeky part of Harry's brain wonders if the villains always have to be so clichéd.

"Ahhh. Mr. Potter has rejoined the land of the living at last." His voice is lower than Harry had expected, with a slight hint of an accent that Harry can't quite place.

Harry knows what his response is supposed to be. _'Who are you?' _Or perhaps _'Where am I?'_ But he knows as much of an answer to the first as he's likely to get — this man is a part of the ring they've been chasing, obviously, and he's not likely to offer his name. If he asks the latter, he doubts he'll get anything but a laugh in return.

Instead, conscious of his position on the floor, he asks, "Why can't I stand?"

"Precautionary measure," the man says off-handedly. "Can't run if your legs don't work. Not that you'll be getting out of that cell any time soon anyway, but, well, one can't be too careful. Not when it comes to valuables." His eyes flick up and down appraisingly. A trickle of discomfort makes its way down Harry's spine.

In an attempt to both cover his discomfort and to extract further information, he asks,"Why now? Why did you choose _now_ to kidnap me?"

The smile is not a happy one. "I think you know the answer to that already, Mr. Potter."

Harry nods. That is confirmation enough. They are close. They are too close for comfort. He hopes desperately that they hadn't found every copy he made of his notes. He knows that at this point, those notes are their best shot at cracking this thing and his best shot at getting out of here some time soon.

The wicked smile grows. "You think you're safe, don't you? You think we wouldn't realise that you made notes? We found them, Potter. All three copies. No one is coming to save you."

Harry only just manages to stop the relief from crossing his features. He forces masked disappointment to show instead.

He made four copies.

The man is positively gleeful, which Harry takes to mean that his feigned disappointment has been believed. "This is what happens, Mr. Potter, to people who take things that don't belong to them."

Harry isn't certain whether he's referring to the girl or the papers, but he's not entirely sure he even wants to know.

"Why not just kill me then? If the objective was to stop us from getting any closer? You don't strike me as an idiot; you must know they'll come after me. The Wizarding World won't take too well to you taking off with their Chosen One."

"That's just it, Mr. Potter. There will be nothing to come after. We know how to make people vanish without a trace. You will go up in a puff of smoke, and there will be no trail to follow." He laughs mirthlessly. "Besides, Mr. Potter, kill you? _You_, dear boy? Do you know how much you're _worth_? I'm not an idiot; you're right. I know when to cut my losses. And I know when the right sale could leave me set for life. You are the latter."

Harry cannot stop the physical shudder that runs down his spine at the words. Somehow, it hadn't quite registered that he has been _kidnapped_ by a _human trafficking ring_.

But the expression on the man's face snaps him out of horror and straight into rage. "You can't honestly believe I'll go tamely, can you?" His voice is practically a snarl.

The man's lips curl up into the most intimidating expression Harry has ever seen — and he stood face to face with Voldemort multiple times. "On the contrary, Mr. Potter, I'm quite hoping you won't. There are those who will pay good money for the pleasure of… _breaking you_."

Harry can almost feel the color leach from his face. His hands go cold instantly. His stomach rolls.

The man leans forward, his lips nearly brushing the metal of the bars as he whispers. "Good day, Mr. Potter." The words are spoken as a threat, and after they are issue, the man spins on his heel and walks briskly off, no doubt intending to leave Harry to his imagination.

And once, Harry is sure, his imagination would have spun out of control, showing him all the things that could mean, crippling him under the possibilities. But Harry is not who he once was. Draco has taught him what and ordered mind can do, and though Harry knows he may never have Draco's impeccable control, his mind is no longer the chaos it once was.

He takes the words "the pleasure of breaking you" and tucks them away in a little box. The lid won't shut quite like it's supposed to — he is still conscious of them, chasing each other round and round inside his head, threatening to drive him mad, but at least he know has the space to focus on something else.

Because Harry, Harry doesn't do the whole damsel-in-distress thing. He can't manage sitting and waiting for someone else to come rescue him. It's not ever been his method.

He assesses the situation. They've taken his wand, no surprise there. He's still dressed in the loose pants he wore to bed, and he is still shirtless, which is slightly annoying but not exactly a priority.

It may soon become one, however, as he comes to the realisation that the numbness he felt upon waking was not just a bleary sort of unconsciousness. He can't feel his fingers like he should be able to. They won't bend right, and they feel about twice as large as they should be — just a feeling, he knows, as they look almost normal. The lighting is too dim to make out the coloring, so he can't tell if he should be worrying or not yet.

He tries to stand with the intention of pacing, creating blood flow, but his legs will not support him.

He swears, reckoning that if there ever were a situation that merited it, this is it. He can remain still and slowly turn into a block of ice, or he can flail about like an ungraceful idiot — he can practically hear Draco's voice in his head, snarking _'and how is that any different than what you normally do?'_, but he pushes that aside because wistful thoughts aren't going to help him. Flailing about might create body heat, might save his hands, might be worth it.

First things first, though, he sets out on hands and knees, examining the confines of the cell, looking for weaknesses. They have taken his legs, but they cannot take away his will. He cannot stop fighting.

_He cannot be broken._


End file.
